Page 65 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“Kate!” Sarah and I shout in unison.

A sharp rap on the door saves me from impending death by mortification. A frantic client peers through the window. “Dr. Price! Mrs. Anderson's cat just collapsed!”

Logan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Duty calls.” He pushes off from the desk and pauses beside me, leaning close enough that his breath warms my ear. “Your friends are... intense,” he murmurs so only I can hear. “I like them.”

Then he's gone, leaving me standing there with my mouth half open.

“He's hot,” Kate announces once the door closes behind him. “Broody. Mysterious. Definitely your type.”

“He's my boss,” I manage weakly.

“And roommate. Andversatile arrangementpartner,” she counters, making air quotes. “You've got it bad, Em.”

“I don't— It's not— We're just—” I stammer.

“Eloquent as always,” Kate says. “I'm glad we did this. Now I know you're alive and getting thoroughly laid by Dr. McDreamy.”

Sarah finally speaks up. “Kate, maybe we should go. Emily has to work, and we've already caused enough... disruption.”

After extracting solemn promises to call them later and respond to texts, I usher them out with Michelangelo, the nonterminal turtle. The rest of the day passes in a blur of appointments and phone calls, my mind replaying Logan's words over and over. Versatile arrangement. It sounds so clinical, so detached.

Is that really all this is?

By closing time, I filed every chart, answered every email, and even alphabetized the medication cabinet to avoid thinking about the inevitable conversation with Logan.

“Ready?” His voice startles me. He stands by my desk with his coat draped over his arm and the car keys dangling from his fingers.

“Almost,” I murmur, shutting down the computer with deliberate slowness.

“So,” he says, leaning against the desk, close enough that I can smell his cologne.

My fingers fumble on the keyboard. “I'm sorry about Kate. She's...” I search for the right word.

“Protective,” Logan supplies. “I get it.”

“She's never been subtle.”

“Neither have you,” he points out, and when I look up, that almost-smile plays at the corners of his mouth. My heart does a stupid little flip.

“About what she said?—”

“The part about me being too broody or the part about us being fuck buddies?” His tone is light, but something flickers in his eyes that I can't quite read.

I swallow hard. “I don't know what we are, Logan.” The confession slips out before I can stop it.

He studies me for a long moment, then reaches out, brushing his thumb across my lower lip. The touch sends electricity racing down my spine.

“We're...” He pauses, his eyes locked on mine. “Us.”

It's not exactly a declaration of undying love, but the way he cups my jaw tells me things I'm not ready to hear anyway.

I lean into his touch, just slightly. “Is that enough?” I whisper.

He doesn't answer, at least not with words. Instead, he kisses me right here in the empty clinic with the lights still on and the cleaning crew due any minute. It's not our usual hungry, desperate kiss. This one feels like a question and an answer rolled into one.

When he pulls back, the look in his eyes makes my stomach drop. “For now.”

We step into the evening air, and Logan's hand settles at the small of my back. Maybe labels are overrated anyway.

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