Page 22 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

Mrs. Moore lets out this laugh that sounds way too young for her face and practically skips over to me. “I’m Amelia Moore.”

She sticks out her hand. Her skin feels like tissue paper against my still-frozen fingers. I stand up too fast and slam my hip into the corner of the desk.Motherfucker.

I bite my tongue. “We actually met yesterday. I’m Emily Baker,” I say through gritted teeth, trying not to hop around screaming while my hip throbs like it’s been hit with a baseball bat.

“Lovely to meet you, Abigail.”

“Um, actually, it’s Emily,” I say extra slowly and loudly, remembering she told me not to yell yesterday. Would it be such a horrible thing to roll my eyes at this nice woman? Yes, it would.

“Of course. Such a pretty name.” She pats my cheek like I’m five years old. Her hand smells like old lady lavender as she plops down in the other chair. She looks me up and down, nodding as if she’s checking items off a mental list. “Let’s get started, Abigail.”

I start to correct her again, but what’s the point? The woman is as deaf as a doorknob. I glance toward the hallway and catch Logan watching us with that blank face of his. Is he already thinking he made a mistake? Screw that.

I lift my chin, determined to prove him wrong. “Here, let me help with that,” I say, jabbing the computer’s power button.

“Thank you, sweetie,” she mumbles, hunching over the keyboard as though it might bite her. She pecks at it with one finger, her tongue sticking out. No wonder Logan needs someone new. At this rate, we’ll be lucky to have our email checked before summer.

After taking approximately a decade to unlock the computer, she turns to me with a triumphant grin. I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. That little voice in my head screams that “training” with Mrs. Moore will be a special kind of hell. Her old lady perfume reminds me of my grandma as I sit next to her. I mean, how freaking hard can it be to answer phones and schedule dog checkups?

While Mrs. Moore shows me her system, which seems to involve ignoring the computer and scribbling illegible notes everywhere, our first victim walks in, some lady in her fifties carrying what sounds like a pissed-off mountain lion in a carrier. Even though every animal I’ve ever met has tried to maim me, I straighten up and get ready to play receptionist. I can handle this. I will handle this.

Showtime for Receptionist Emily.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Emily

My first week at Logan’s veterinary clinic is a total shit show of questionable life choices. I’m dumb enough to think this would be easy: answer phones, schedule appointments, rake in cash. Low effort, fat paycheck.

The universe, being the twisted bitch it always is, has other plans.

My first clue that this job isn’t the easy money grab I imagined hits me when the waiting room packs with Manhattan’s loaded female population, all hugging carriers with pets that barely have a sniffle.

“Why the hell are there so many women here?” I whisper to Mrs. Moore.

She adjusts her glasses and smirks. “Dr. Price has quite the following.”

The daily female parade that storms through this clinic is as subtle as a brick to the face. I’ve sorted these women in my head. There are the Designer Damsels who roll up in clothes worth more than my whole damn life, carrying yappy little rats in bags that match their stupid outfits.

Then the Leaning Ladies, masters of theoops, I just need to bend all the way over this tablemove, making sure Logan gets a full view of whatever they’re flaunting that day.

And in the end, we have the Touchers. They can’t make it through a five-minute appointment without finding a million excuses to put their fancy nails on Logan’s arm, shoulder, or, for the extra thirsty ones, his lower back.

In the meantime, Mrs. Moore has been training me all week, if you can call it that. She’s half-blind, deaf when convenient, and dead set on calling me Abigail no matter how many times I correct her. She wastes three frickin’ hours showing me the filing system—spoiler alert: it’s the alphabet—and another two drilling me on how to answer a damn phone.

“Price Veterinary Clinic, it’s Amelia speaking. How may we help you today?” she recites for the millionth time.

I nod, fighting to look interested instead of ready to slip into a coma.

“Now you try,” she pushes.

“Price Veterinary Clinic,” I copy like a robot, “how may we?—”

The phone blasts, making us both jump. Mrs. Moore waves at me to grab it.

I clear my throat and snatch it up. “Um, er, hi!”

Mrs. Moore’s eyes bug out like they might pop. Logan glares from his doorway, radiating enough disapproval to power a small city. The caller just wants to reschedule, thank God.

---