Page 33 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“Especially then.” Our fingers touch when I hand her the last paper towel. Neither of us moves away.

“I’ll remember that.” Her voice drops to something that makes my skin tingle. “Thanks for coming over, by the way,” she says softly. “I know it wasn’t life or death.”

“Anytime,” I say back—and damn if I don’t mean it.

The shoebox apartment feels microscopic now. From her throne, Demon stares down, judging our pathetic attempt at keeping things professional.

This isn’t just wanting someone anymore. I actually like Emily Baker, with her disaster apartment, her crazy energy, her stupid pizza shirt, and the way she chews her lip when she’s nervous, like she’s doing right now.

Bad idea. Really fucking bad idea.

But when she steps closer, smelling like vanilla, I can’t remember why I’m supposed to care.

And this is when the cat starts throwing up again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Emily

I've endured two weeks at the Price Veterinary Clinic. Fourteen days of answering phones, scheduling appointments, and dodging the murderous intentions of Manhattan's pet population. My relationship with our furry clients? It's still a total shit show.

Yet somehow, I've survived.

“Last appointment just left,” I call to Logan, who's still scribbling notes in his office. The clock says seven thirty, which is way past when we should have locked up.

My shoulders are killing me, and my feet are straight-up cussing at me for the dumbass cute flats I picked this morning.

Logan comes out of his office. He's ditched the white coat for a dark button-down that makes his eyes look stupid green. His tie's loose, and he's got that crazy end-of-day thing going that makes me wanna mess him up more.

“Ready to lock up?” He rolls up his sleeves, and holy shit, those forearms. It should come with a warning label. Danger: hot as hell, may cause panties to spontaneously combust.

“I have to finish filing these charts.” I rip my gaze off him. It's so wrong to mentally undress him. Though I totally do. All the time. When he's too busy being Mr. Perfect to catch me doing it.

And the worst part? He's being... nice.

Not friendly nice. Logan Price doesn't do friendly. His emotional range goes frompissed offtobarely tolerating your existence.But I'm working on it.

I'm halfway through alphabetizing the H-K folders when the front door explodes open. A woman stumbles in, her face streaked with tears and mascara, and she's clutching a blood-soaked bundle to her chest.

“Please,” she gasps between sobs. “Someone help him!”

Logan materializes beside me. “What happened?”

The woman sobs. “C-car... He ran... I couldn't—” She collapses onto the floor, clutching the bundle tighter.

“Ma'am, I need to know what happened to treat your dog effectively.” Logan's voice stays measured but firm. His eyes narrow at the corners.

“Don't let him die!” she wails, rocking back and forth. “Please, don't let him die!”

Logan's shoulders square and his jaw tightens as he retreats further behind his doctor shield.

Before my brain catches up to my body, I'm on the floor next to the sobbing woman, abandoning all customer service protocols that would've given Mrs. Moore a stroke.

“Hey.” My voice strips away all that professional polish crap. “What's your dog's name?”

She blinks through mascara rivers. “M-Milo.”

“Milo. Solid name.” I lock eyes with her. “Look, you're scared shitless right now. I would be too. But Milo needs you to pull it together for three minutes.”

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