Page 37 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“Yes, a Saint Bernard. His name is Bob.”

We're in the opulent lobby now, walking toward the elevators. A man is sitting behind a desk waving hello to us, but I'm too focused on what I just found out to pay attention.

“You mean like Beethoven?” The movie's the only reason I know what kind of dog he's talking about. If I remember right, a Saint Bernard is a huge dog. I swallow, feeling my palms begin to sweat. “You know, maybe this isn't such a good idea. I mean, catsand dogs don't get along, right? Maybe I can find somewhere else to spend the night. A hotel room or something.”

“It's not a problem,” he says, ignoring everything I just said. “Bob's a really good dog. I'm sure he and Demon won't have any problem bonding.”

I'm not worried about the fucking cat. I'm worried about me. The last time Logan called a dog a good dog, the thing looked at me as if it wanted to devour me.

The elevator arrives at the top floor with a loud ding. I step out, feeling as if I'm headed to the guillotine. And right this minute, having my head cut off seems like a kinder fate than being mauled to death by a monster that weighs more than I do.

Only two doors are opening off the landing. I follow Logan and wait for him to put his key into the lock. Here we go. The door opens into an enormous open space. Floor-to-ceiling windows run the length of one whole wall. A cozy-looking sofa sits in front of a massive flat-screen TV. The kitchen island stands in the middle of the room, with two stools on one side. Behind it stands a huge, double-door fridge. How much does Logan eat that he needs a refrigerator that big?

The answer runs up to me. He's almost as tall as I am, with two enormous round eyes and a tongue that lolls out of his mouth. The last coherent thought that goes through my mind before I fall backward under the weight of the giant animal, other than the sudden realization that, of course, you would need a fridge that big to feed a beast of that size, is that he really does look like a Bob.

What the hell have I gotten myself into this time?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Logan

I'm so fucked. I knew it the second I opened my stupid mouth and invited Emily to crash at my place. Her reaction, jumping on me as if I were some kind of human jungle gym, took me by surprise, and my dick reacted exactly how you'd expect.

She definitely noticed. How could she not feel my hard-on pressing against her? The weird part is she didn't say anything about it. Maybe she's not into me. Maybe that's why she didn't call me out right there.

We just got to my place, and I'm still obsessing over it. I can feel her eyes on me while I fumble with the lock. She's obviously uncomfortable, and I don't blame her. I'm her boss, for Christ's sake, and I've been acting like a horny teenager instead of a professional. She probably only accepted my offer because she was desperate. I don't know if she has family nearby or friends she could stay with. I barely know anything about this woman except that every time she's near me, my dick turns to steel.

As we walk in, I watch her reaction from the corner of my eye. My place is a far cry from that sad little apartment she lived in, though hers actually felt like someone lived there. Mineis sterile, with no photos and no personal shit lying around. Everything's spotless and organized. Cold, just like me.

For a second, I see my apartment through her eyes. The stark white walls, the spotless countertops that rarely see any actual cooking. The only personal touch is a worn leather dog collar hanging by the door.

She starts to say something but lets out this little shriek instead when Bob comes charging in, plants his massive paws on her shoulders, and knocks her flat.

“Bob, no!” I yell, but it's too late. The giant mutt already has his tongue out and is slobbering all over Emily's face. I drop her suitcase and the carrier with her cat inside and rush to save her, pulling Bob away so she can breathe. “Sorry, he gets excited.”

I hold out my hand. Emily's eyes are huge, and her face is ghost white. When she takes my hand, she’s trembling.

“I promise Bob wouldn't hurt a fly,” I tell her, but I don't think she buys it.

She nods anyway, those big brown eyes still fixed on my dog. “I'll let Bob go now if that's okay?” She nods again, still pale as hell.

Despite his overly friendly welcome, Bob really is a good dog. He sits on his backside and watches Emily, with his tongue hanging out like an idiot.

“You can pet him if you want,” I tell her.

She reaches out one small hand, visibly shaking as she touches Bob's fur. After a few seconds, she pulls away and looks at me. “Wait a minute,” she says, narrowing her eyes. Her expression shifts from fear to suspicion. “When I asked you to take Demon, you said your dog doesn't play well with others. But Bob seems perfectly friendly.”

Shit. I forgot about that lie. Heat creeps up my neck.

“Did you just... make that up so you wouldn't have to take my cat?”

“I, uh...” I run a hand through my hair, avoiding her eyes. “Bob can be... selective. With who he likes.”

“Selective?” She crosses her arms, but a smirk forms at the corner of her mouth. “He just tried to French kiss me two seconds after meeting me.”

“Maybe he has good taste.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Her eyebrows shoot up, and I clear my throat, desperate to change the subject. “What do you say we let the cat out and check out your room?”

“Okay,” she whispers.

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