Page 70 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“Are you sure you want to go to work today?” he asks again.

“I told you, I'm fine now. I don't need to stay home.” Where I can't keep those vultures away from you.

“Okay. I'll go make the coffee, and we'll be on our way.”

“Sure!” I force my lips into a smile. “Let me just dry my hair, and I'll be right there.” The mere thought of coffee makes my stomach heave in violent rebellion. The rich aroma that usually has me salivating now feels like an assault on my senses.

He stands watching me for a few more seconds, his gaze more penetrating than usual, and for an instant, I'm afraid he's found me out, that he can somehow see the thoughts tumbling through my head. Instead, he presses his lips to my forehead in a chaste kiss and walks out of the room without saying anything else, leaving me with the ghost of his touch burning my skin.

As soon as his footsteps fade away, I race to the bathroom and close the door behind me, leaning against it as another wave of nausea rolls through me. I slide down to sit on the cool tile floor, drawing my knees up to my chest, trying to breathe through the sickness.

I swear I'll never eat another egg roll in my life. But deep down, I know it's not about the food at all. There's a calendar in my head that I've been deliberately ignoring, days ticking by without the familiar rhythm of my cycle making itself known.

My hand presses against my still-flat belly. I can't be pregnant. I just can't be.

Don't jump to conclusions, I tell myself firmly. It could be stress, a stomach bug, or a dozen other things. No point in panicking until I know for sure.

I push myself up from the floor. I'll get through today like nothing's wrong. Because nothing is wrong. It has to be nothing.

Goingto work was a terrible idea. My head feels like it’s going to explode as the shrill voice of the woman standing in front of me threatens to burst my eardrums.

“My Queenie isn’t talking anymore,” she explains to me with tears in her eyes. “See? He’s been like this for days!”

She lifts the carrier onto the counter and opens it, forcing her pet to come out. It’s one of those miniature dogs with short hair and enormous ears that always look like they’re pissed off. I admit that the little monster does seem to have some sort of problem. It’s like watching a movie but without the soundtrack.

“You see?” shouts his owner hysterically.

Queenie’s opening and closing her mouth, showing her tiny, sharp teeth, and hopping back and forth as if she wants to attack me.

Sometimes, I don’t understand the way my mind works. I know the dog’s basically mute, so why do I have this urge to touch it and see if, for some absurd reason, I can turn the audio back on? I proceed to make the big mistake of stretching my hand out toward it. The little bitch sinks its teeth into my finger.

“Shit!” I mutter, trying desperately to disengage my finger from its mouth.

“Everything okay here?” I hear Logan coming up behind me. “I was calling you from the door. Why didn’t you answer me, Em— What the hell?” He grabs the little beast by the head andpries its jaws open, freeing my finger. “Mrs. Ross, you know perfectly well you shouldn’t take Queenie out of her carrier,” he admonishes the client. “Pets must always be kept on a leash or in their carriers in the waiting room.”

“Oh, Dr. Price, forgive me! But your admin told me to wait my turn even though I told her it was an emergency. I just wanted her to see the condition my little treasure is in.”

Logan sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Mrs. Ross, there’s nothing seriously wrong with Queenie. She probably just has a bit of a cold.” He keeps his tone professional, though I can tell he’s about to roll his eyes and laugh in the woman’s face. “I’ll prescribe an antibiotic for Queenie. You need to give it to her twice a day by mouth.” He quickly writes out a prescription and hands it to her.

“Thank you, Dr. Price!” she peals happily, taking the tiny dog from Logan’s arms and hugging it to her chest. Queenie glares up at her dear mommy and bares her teeth. Mrs. Ross picks up the prescription and the carrier from the reception desk and heads for the exit.

If I were Mrs. Ross, I wouldn’t let the little beast sleep in my bed. I would lock my bedroom door, so it couldn’t get in. To hell with what Logan says, Queenie has the distinct look of a homicidal maniac. I’m seriously beginning to worry about that poor woman who has to live with her. I shudder. Animals are truly terrifying.

I look at my finger. It’s still bleeding. I know it’s just a flesh wound, but it really burns. “Um, Logan?”

My hunky vet turns toward me. “Yes, Emily?”

“I'm not going to become like Queenie, am I?” I wave my bloody finger with dramatic flair. “I'm not going to lose my ability to make noise, right? Because I kind of rely on my voice for, you know, communication and occasional bouts of hysterical screaming.”

“She's not a radioactive spider.” His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Dog bites don't typically confer special powers, unfortunately.”

I roll my eyes, immediately regretting it when pain stabs through my temples. “What I meant is, I'm not going to get doggy laryngitis now, am I? Because if I'm going to lose my voice to a bite, I should probably start practicing my mime routine.”

“I'm sorry,” he replies, voice grave while his eyes dance with suppressed laughter, “but no, unfortunately, you won't be losing your voice. The world will have to continue enduring your particular brand of commentary for the foreseeable future.”

My jaw drops. Logan Price just cracked two jokes in sixty seconds. The stern, brooding veterinarian who communicates primarily through grunts and frowns has suddenly developed a personality.

“Jerk,” I mutter, pressing my fingers against my throbbing temples. Despite my best efforts, a smile threatens to break free. I like this playful version of Logan.

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