Page 18 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“I can handle difficult people,” I assure him. “I’ve waited tables in Times Square. Nothing is scarier than a hangry tourist who’s been told there’s a forty-minute wait.”

He smiles. It’s not a reassuring smile, though. It seems more challenging, as if he’s daring me to prove myself. “One week,” he says finally. “I’ll give you a one-week trial period. You can assist Mrs. Moore in her duties, learn the ropes, and we’ll see if it’s a good fit.”

Relief washes over me, so strong I nearly sag against the exam table. “I won’t let you down,” I whisper, meaning it with every fiber of my being.

“I hope not.” There’s something in his eyes, something different from the usual annoyance or clinical detachment. A warmth or a curiosity. We stare at each other for a few seconds, the air between us charged with something I can’t quite name.

“I should go now,” I say, my voice quavering slightly. “When do I start?”

“Tomorrow morning at eight.”

“Okay.” I hurriedly stuff Demon back into her carrier. She manages to scratch me again, but I ignore the pain, latch the little gate, and clutch the carrier to my chest.

I have no idea what new challenges I’ve gotten myself into, but from tomorrow on, I vow to be a new Emily. An Emily who works at a veterinary clinic. Someone who will stop at nothing to keep from failing again.

I take a deep breath as I step outside into the crisp winter air. Maybe, just maybe, this is the change I’ve been waiting for. A new job, a new challenge, and a very handsome, if somewhat grumpy, boss.

Everything will go terribly wrong, but for once, I’m looking forward to finding out how.

CHAPTER SIX

Logan

The concierge at my building gives me this slight, respectful smile as I drag myself through the lobby, clearly exhausted from work.

“Good evening, Dr. Price.” He clears his throat. “You have a guest.” His voice drops to this hesitant murmur, and something in his tone makes my muscles tighten. “Your father is waiting in your apartment.”

My jaw locks until my teeth grind together. I give him nothing but a curt nod while acid burns up my throat. Of course he's here. Almost two months since he last showed his face. His money must've run out. Same old shit, same old dance we've been doing since I turned twenty-one and got my hands on my inheritance.

What does the old man want this time? Cash, probably. Always fucking money.

I sigh and punch the elevator button harder than necessary, as though that'll make the damn thing come faster.

I own half the top floor, a massive penthouse with more space than I know what to do with. I could afford the whole floor.Hell, the whole damn building, but what's the point of all that room?

The elevator climbs with barely a sound, just a soft hum as it moves. My stomach knots with each floor we pass. I should've gone straight to Stephen's after the clinic. Or anywhere else. A bar. A hotel. Anywhere but here.

The elevator announces my arrival with this fake cheerful sound that makes me want to break something, and the doors slide open to the short hallway that leads to only two apartments. As I step out, the door across from mine opens, and Nathan appears, his tall frame filling the doorway before he stops dead.

He gives me a quick, polite nod. I like Nathan, even if we've never hung out, never crossed that line between neighbors and friends.

I hold the elevator for him. “Have a good night.”

His “You too” follows me as the doors close, taking my last excuse to avoid the shitstorm waiting behind my door.

My apartment door is still closed. At least the old bastard didn't leave it wide open like last time.

I find the cold metal key in my pocket, then freeze. Everything in me screams not to face my dear old dad. But this is my home. Why should I let him keep me out of my own fucking apartment?

Anger flares up from the base of my spine. With sudden resolve, I turn the key and burst in, slamming the door behind me hard enough to shake the walls.

The jerk's sitting on the floor, with his back against my couch and his eyes closed. One hand hangs limp; the other clutches a bottle of my expensive whiskey. Half gone already.

I reach him and kick his leg, not gently. “Wake up.” Part of me hopes he stays passed out so I can call someone to haul his ass out. Like garbage.

“What?” His eyelids flutter before opening. He's so wasted it takes forever for him to register who I am. “Son,” he slurs. “How are you?”

He struggles to get up, all clumsy and uncoordinated. He staggers and falls back onto the couch while the whiskey spills all over his shirt and my cream-colored sofa.

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