Page 21 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

I make it to the clinic at 7:59. It’s a small win, but I’ll take it. One last deep breath. Quick check, hair, teeth, no toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Here goes nothing.

No one’s at the front desk when I enter, but the door to the back rooms is open. I hear a dog bark from somewhere inside, then Logan’s voice all low and quiet. My heart does this weird, jumpy thing. It’s just nerves. Nothing to do with him.

“Hello? Anybody here?” Nothing but silence. I stand there like an idiot for a second before saying screw it and heading through the door behind the desk.

I can hear people talking in one of the exam rooms, not the same one where Logan patched up my legs. God, don’t think about that now. Don’t remember his hands on my skin, how gentle they were?—

Shit. My face heats up. I shake my head hard and knock on what I pray is his office door.

“Come in!” When he’s not bitching at me, his voice is actually kind of nice. Deep with this little rough edge to it. I mentally slap myself for even noticing it and push the door open.

Logan hangs up the phone as I walk in. He’s wearing another blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up. I drag my eyes away from his forearms. What the hell, Emily?

His office is precisely what I figured, obsessively neat, clean as an operating room, and white enough to give you a headache. There’s no personal thing anywhere, no photos, and nothing that says an actual human works here. The only thing that doesn’t scream sterile is a steaming coffee mug in his hand.

“How cute.” I nod at the cup.

His eyebrows scrunch together as he turns the mug around as though he forgot what was on it. For a split second, he looks confused, almost less like some untouchable god and more like a regular dude.

“It was a gift,” he says, ice returning to his voice. He puts the mug down and yanks some papers from a drawer. “Sign these.”

The cup says, “Leave me alone, I only talk to my dog.” Perfect for Mr. Personality over here.

I bite my tongue and flip through the paperwork. Getting canned before lunch isn’t part of the plan. Boring legal crap until I hit the salary part. Holy shit. After my trial week, I’ll make actual decent money. Enough for rent, bills, and maybe even that cheap bottle of wine I’ve been eyeing for weeks. Might even crank the heat up sometimes. Imagine that not freezing my ass off 24/7.

I let out this embarrassing little squeak. Logan’s eyes lock onto me, lingering way too long on my face.

“So.” I clear my throat and look anywhere but at him. “When do I start?”

He gives me this look like I’m some complicated math problem he can’t solve. His eyes move over my face, stopping at my mouth before meeting my eyes again. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the temperature. I squirm in my chair, feeling like I’m under a microscope.

“Right away,” he finally says. “Mrs. Moore will train you this week. If you don’t screw up, you’re on your own next week.”

“Wait, what?” I jump up as though my chair’s on fire. “You’re not firing your admin because of me, are you?”

His forehead gets all crinkly. “Amelia’s pushing eighty,” he says like I’m an idiot. I cross my arms and give him the side-eye. He sighs, and something almost human flashes across his face. “She’s been begging to retire for years. I couldn’t find anyone to replace her. You... just happened to show up when I needed someone.”

“So basically I’m saving your ass.” I can’t help the smirk that spreads across my face. Something weirdly satisfying about the idea that Mr. Perfect might actually need my help.

“Don’t push it,” he mutters, flipping through his appointment book. His fingers are long and weirdly elegant for a guy, though there are calluses on his palms. Working hands that don’t match his fancy-doctor vibe. He’s ignoring me now, but I catch this tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost like he wants to smile but forgot how. I take it as my cue to get the hell out.

I head back to the front desk, feeling weirdly good about myself. He needs me, even if his ego won’t let him admit it. The thought gives me this rush, and I probably shouldn’t analyze it too closely. I tell myself it’s just relief at having a job, but yeah, that’s bullshit.

I stash my bag under the desk and plop down. There are two chairs here. Logan must’ve dragged one in for me. The idea that he thought about me sends these stupid butterflies through my stomach. Did he pick it out special? Move it from somewhere else in the clinic? God, why am I obsessing over a freaking chair?

Get a grip, Emily. It’s a chair, not a marriage proposal.

I check out my new workspace. A new computer and this massive desk calendar with so much scribbled crap on it youcan’t even tell what month it is. Looks like Mrs. Moore and technology aren’t exactly on speaking terms.

As if I conjured her with my mind, the lady materializes in the doorway. She stops dead, staring at me with her lips all pinched together. She’s so tiny, she barely comes up to my shoulder, with this explosion of white hair and thick glasses that make her eyes look massive. Purple sweater with cats embroidered all over it, orthopedic shoes that screamI’ve given up on fashion. I’m frozen in place with this stupid fake smile plastered on my face. The theme fromTheGood, the Bad, and the Uglyplays in my head. My hands are sweating like crazy. Please, universe, don’t make me fight a senior citizen for this crappy job.

“Finally!”

I nearly fall out of my damn chair. “Um... what?” I manage to squeak out.

The old woman slaps her hands on her hips and breaks into this huge smile, flashing teeth so perfect they’ve gotta be fake. Her eyes get all crinkly with what looks suspiciously like happiness. “I’ve been nagging that stubborn boy to hire somebody new for damn near a decade.”

My mouth hangs open as if I’m catching flies. Not the territorial catfight I was bracing for.

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