Page 50 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“Sure thing, boss,” I say with mock cheerfulness. “I’ll see you there.”

He nods once, grabs his keys, and walks out without another word. As soon as the door closes behind him, I sink to the kitchen floor. What the hell just happened? Last night, he couldn’t get enough of me, and now, he can barely look at me. Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it, I can be an adult too. I can pretend last night never happened. I can act like my heart isn’t currently being shredded into confetti in my chest.

I drag myself to my feet. Time to get dressed and face the day with as much dignity as possible for someone who just got the morning-after brush-off from their boss/landlord/whatever-the-hell Logan is to me now.

I’m fine. Totally fine. It was just sex, after all. People have casual sex all the time. They’re adults about it. I can be an adult too.

The microwave clock blinks 09:07, and reality crashes down. Shit! My self-pity party has lasted so long that I’m now late for work.

I race back to the bedroom. My clothes from last night are still scattered across the floor where Logan tore them off me. The memory sends heat rushing to my face, even while doubt gnaws at my insides.

Cranking the shower to scalding, I stand under the spray, letting it pound against my skin.

I scrub myself in a hurry. Gotta look professional, not like I just rolled out of my boss’s bed after mind-blowing sex. Definitely not that.

Back in my room, I face the disaster zone that is my wardrobe, courtesy of Demon’s fashion critique via claws. After ten frantic minutes, I unearth jeans and a sweater that somehow survived the feline apocalypse. I throw them on, jam my feet into sneakers, and grab my purse and jacket.

Outside, the city’s already in full swing. I call an Uber, wincing at the cost. Every dollar spent on transportation is one less for my future independence, but what choice do I have?

My driver shows up in a beat-up sedan piloted by a chatty twentysomething who won’t shut up about everything from Mercury retrograde to her latest Tinder nightmare. I tune her out, too busy with the tornado of thoughts whipping through my head.

“Bad morning?” She catches my eye in the rearview mirror.

“Just running late,” I mutter, not in the mood for conversation.

When the clinic comes into view, I throw money at the driver and leap out before she’s fully stopped. Barreling through the entrance, I nearly collide with the door as it swings inward. The waiting room is packed with women and their pets, all witnesses to my breathless entrance. I bend forward, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

“You’re late.”

Those two words freeze me mid-breath. I straighten slowly, already knowing what I’ll find. Logan stands in the doorway to the back offices, dressed in his pristine white lab coat with a clipboard in hand. His expression offers nothing, not a flicker of the man who hours ago whispered filthy, beautiful promises against my heated skin.

“I’m sorry...” My gaze locks with his, searching for any remnant of last night’s tenderness. Green eyes that burned with desire now chill me with glacial indifference.

“We’ve got a full schedule today. Please take your position at reception and start doing the job you’re paid to do.”

Each word lands like a physical blow. Humiliation burns my cheeks, intensified by our audience of waiting clients. Before I can respond, he pivots on his heel and strides away. The slam of his office door echoes through the suddenly silent waiting room.

Yeah, adults, my ass!

“Excuse me, but do you think you could do what Dr. Price told you to do? We don’t have the whole day to waste while you’re figuring out how to do your job.”

I turn to find some blonde in designer clothes clutching a dog the size of a hamster, looking at me like I’m something she scraped off her shoe.

“I apologize,” I force out through clenched teeth. “I promise you won’t have to wait long.”

I retreat behind the reception desk, dump my bag on the floor, and sink into my chair. Everything looks normal, including the computer screen, the appointment list, and the ringing phone. Everything except me.

Logan Price is the world’s biggest asshole, and I’ve fallen for him like the complete idiot I am.

Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not where he might see. Not wheretheymight see. I log into the system with trembling fingers and force myself to focus on the day’s schedule, calling in one patient after another in a voice that somehow doesn’t crack.

Every time Logan emerges to collect a patient, he glides past my desk without even acknowledging me, as if I’ve become invisible.

The day crawls by at a snail’s pace, each minute stretched into hours, and I bounce between wanting to cry and wanting to scream in his face. Through the cracked door of the exam room, I catch glimpses of a different Logan, smiling, gentle with scared animals and worried owners. I watch those big hands holding a trembling Chihuahua with impossible tenderness, and my heart twists with a sick mixture of longing and fury.

The daysthat follow are pretty much the same emotional hell.

Logan doesn’t actively mistreat me. He erases me from existence. Sometimes, I wonder if I hallucinated that whole night, the way he looked at me as though I were something precious, the gentleness that contradicted how desperately he wanted me, the way he said my name like it was something sacred.

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