Page 16 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“Fine! Fine. We’ll go see Dr. McJudgy. But I’m only doing this because I’m a responsible pet owner, not because I want to see him again.”

And that’s how, thirty minutes later, I’m standing in front of Price Veterinary Services. Demon, in the meantime, has recovered from her life-threatening injury, and she’s squirming in the carrier.

“Be cool,” I whisper to myself, then cringe because talking to yourself outside a vet clinic is not cool. “Just get in, get the cat checked, get out. Do not mention that you got fired. Do not mention that your landlord is threatening eviction. And for the love of all things holy, do not stare at his ass.”

Inside the spacious waiting room is at least a dozen people with various pets. There are women of all ages, each with some type of animal. One lady cradles what appears to be a ferret wearing a tiny sweater. Another has a parrot perched on hershoulder, its eyes following my every move. They all belong to some exclusive club I haven’t been invited to join.

I swallow, a shiver of fear running up my back. The poodle in the corner bares its teeth at me. Of course it does.

“Is everything all right, dear?” a woman with a Persian cat asks, not sounding at all concerned.

“Just peachy,” I reply with a forced smile. “My cat’s looking forward to her appointment.”

The woman’s gaze shifts to Demon’s carrier, from which a low growl emanates. “What breed is... it?”

“Demon is a... domestic cat,” I say lamely.

“Hmm.” She purses her lips. “Our Duchess is a Silver Persian. Her grandfather was Best in Show at the Cat Fanciers’ Association championship three years ago.”

“How nice for you,” I say, struggling to maintain my smile. “Demon’s grandfather was probably a stray who lived behind a dumpster, but we can’t all be aristocats, can we?”

The woman’s eyes widen, and she shifts her chair away from me.

I approach the desk where a gray-haired woman is typing with painfully slow, one-finger precision. The keyboard clacks loudly as she pecks at it.

“Good morning, dear,” she says in a voice so high and shrill it’s almost painful. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning.” I look at her name tag that readsMrs. Moore.“I’ve brought my cat?—”

“What’s that, dearie?” she yells, leaning forward across the desk. “Can you please speak up?”

I snort. What parallel universe have I ended up in? “I said,” I respond in an equally loud voice, “that I brought my cat for a checkup.”

“You don’t need to shout,” the old lady mutters, looking at me with a frown. She taps her hearing aid. “This works just fine when people speak normally.”

I’m about to leave when the door behind the reception desk opens, and those mesmerizing green eyes meet mine. The air goes out of my lungs with a whoosh, and my throat closes up. I bite my lower lip.

Logan is dressed in a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. His dark blond hair is slightly tousled as if he’s been running his hands through it. His expression shifts from surprise to neutral when he sees me.

“Hi,” I squeak.

“Why are you shouting?” His deep voice carries across the reception area, making several heads turn in our direction.

No “hi” or “how are you?” Of course not. His voice is the same low growl as last night, grumpy and not friendly. Now I remember why I was so frustrated with him despite his incredible looks.

He goes on. “Have a seat. I’ll talk to you when I finish attending to my other patients.”

I open my mouth to reply, but he’s already turned toward one of the ladies sitting in the waiting room, his lips curved in a sincere, heartfelt smile. The transformation is startling, from grumpy to charming doctor in the blink of an eye.

“Mrs. Miller, if you’d follow me, please?”

Mrs. Miller jumps to her feet, pulling down her shirt to display her abundant bosom to better advantage. She almost forgets her enormous designer handbag with the odd little dog in it.

I immediately look away and find a chair as far away from the doctor’s patients as possible, wedging myself in a corner near a ficus tree that’s seen better days. Its leaves are yellowing at the edges, much like my hopes for this day to go smoothly.

I don’t know how long it’s been since I got here, but I’ve counted thirteen snide looks, seven wrinkled-up noses, and nine frowns. The dog in the sweater vest—yes, a dog in an actual sweater vest—keeps side-eyeing me from its owner’s lap. The parrot has squawked “Pretty girl” at every woman who entered but remained suspiciously silent when I arrived.

After what seems like an eternity, the waiting room empties. Logan leans against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. His white lab coat is open, revealing that blue button-down shirt and jeans underneath.

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