Page 4 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

She dips her chin in faint acknowledgment.

Silence reigns, broken only by feline protest from the back seat. The cat is malnourished, filthy, and half frozen, but otherwise intact. The girl is too, apart from minor scrapes. Lucky, both of them.

She turns to the window, and I study her profile against my better judgment. Young. Very young. Too young for me. Not that I’m considering her that way. My body betrays me only because it’s been months since I’ve touched a woman.

I only date older women. No interest in girls barely out of their teens. Yet something about this one both attracts and infuriates me, pulling at parts of myself I thought I buried years ago.

An orange cap with red and yellow lettering perches on her head. The same logo emblazons her jacket, something about a pizza delivery chain. Her brown hair is pulled back, but I can’t see her doe eyes beneath her lowered lids. Her hands still tremble from adrenaline’s aftermath.

Why am I cataloging her features? She’s not my type. Definitely not.

No. I banish those thoughts. Two days without sleep, and here I am, dragged back to the clinic because this twit raced her ridiculous scooter on icy Manhattan streets. This explains why I avoid younger women. They’re immature, irresponsible complications I don’t fucking need.

My phone buzzes. Maybe Leah or Susie or another friend. Women over forty, unpretentious, with minimal expectations. Yet my gaze drifts to her again. Those full, slightly parted lipsharden me instantly. Her tongue traces her bottom lip, leaving a glistening trail in the streetlight.

My deep breath fails to cool the heat surging through me. What’s wrong with me? This night must end. She has to disappear from my life before I do something I’ll regret.

Check the cat, check her, and send her back on her scooter. Easy peasy.

“Will it be okay?” Her small voice yanks me back to reality. “The cat, will it be okay?”

I could lie to deepen her guilt, but her desolate expression unravels something in me. What’s happening? Since when have I wanted to comfort anyone?

Stubble rasps against my palm as I rub my face. I forgot to shave again. Mrs. Moore would arch that eyebrow tomorrow, channeling my grandmother’s disapproval. The image coaxes a smile despite everything.

“It will live,” I snap, harsher than necessary. The cat fares better than she does, honestly.

Yep, endless night ahead. And something tells me it’s just the beginning of my troubles.

Emily

His car stopsin front of what appears to be a veterinary clinic, and my racing pulse slows a fraction. At least I won’t end up in some ditch, murdered by the most gorgeous stranger I’ve ever seen. True crime articles have taught me how these scenarios end.

The clinic nestles between two taller buildings on this stretch of uptown Manhattan, its pristine storefront glowing against thedarkening sky. Gold lettering on the door reads Price Veterinary Services, bathed in tasteful exterior light.

He exits the car, grabs the carrier with the cat inside, and strides toward the entrance without glancing back to check if I’m following. I scramble out and hurry after him, with my sneakers slapping against the wet pavement.

He pats the pocket of his jeans, searching for something, and I seize the moment to appreciate his perfect ass. It fills out those designer jeans in a way that should require a permit after business hours.

Kate’s voice echoes from our last girls’ night. “You need to stop obsessing over men’s butts, Em. It’s not 1999 anymore.”

Maybe she’s right, but old habits die hard.

He pulls out a bunch of keys attached to a small silver carabiner and inserts one into the lock.

“What are you doing?” The stupid question tumbles out before I can stop it. Of course, he’s unlocking the door.

He throws me a glance that says: shut up and follow me. I obey, not that I have much choice, and step into a space that belongs in a luxury hotel rather than a vet clinic.

“Holy cow!” The word escapes as I venture farther into the large, white room. Elegant charcoal leather seats circle the space, a massive oak desk holds an expensive-looking computer, and framed photographs of animals line one wall. The air carries hints of lavender mingled with antiseptic, and weirdly enough, they are pleasant together. “What are we doing here?”

Again, he ignores me and heads for a door behind the desk, opening it to reveal a hallway.

Four cats and three dogs start to hiss, growl, and bark from their enclosures along the corridor as soon as they see me. A particularly fierce tortoiseshell cat swipes through the air toward me.

“I can wait outside.” I step back. “No need for me to be here. In fact, I don’t even know why I came in.”

“Just stay where you are,” he mutters in that low, stern voice. “After I examine this cat, I want to look at your knee.” He nods toward the cut on my leg, still leaking blood, a small dark stain spreading on my pants around the torn fabric. The idea of being examined by a vet in an animal clinic triggers something primal in me.

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