Page 10 of Purring for Her Lion
I do not need her cooking. I am a grown Rodinian male who survived three galactic campaigns on military rations. Besides, I rarely take lunch breaks. It breaks up the pace of the day.
The morning at the clinic is routine, almost insultingly so. The chimera is now vaccinated and thankfully found a foster home with Mrs. Henderson. Routine check ups for a variety of pets. Standard procedures.
Everything running precisely as it should, except for the gnawing, ridiculous awareness of lunchtime creeping closer. And the decision I’ve already made.
With one glare at the refrigerator, I take off my lab coat, hang it on the hook with more force than necessary and lock up with a sign that said I’d be back in an hour.
There are perfectly fine eateries within walking distance, after all. Besides, it’s a lovely day, and I could use some fresh air.
Cool Beans sits by the river, all quaint bistro seating out front and cheerful staff. I rarely go as it’s a little farther away from my office for a quick lunch.
Usually, there are too many regulars, too much noise, not enough privacy. That made it the perfect destination today.
A string of bells clatter over the door as I enter. Conversation falters. Eyes flick my way. I ignore the stares.
“Dr. Khoran!” A woman with royal blue hair calls out to me with a wave. Her name escapes me, and I hate that I can’t remember it. I know she’s the owner at least. “We don’t often see you here for lunch. Special occasion?”
“Just lunch.”
“Special okay?”
I scan the menu at a glance. Turkey club sandwich with house made chips. Seems straightforward enough. I nod. “That. And water.”
Belatedly, I remember her name—Gillian—but she’s already retreated behind the counter with her staff.
I survey the room. Half the town is here, clustered in groups, laughing, sharing food. More are gathered out back.
I should do this more often. Integrate.
I find a corner table where my tail won’t be crushed, and use a napkin to wipe down the table top and chair before sitting.
A server—Annie? Amy? Something with an A—arrives with my sandwich. White bread, turkey, bacon, lettuce, tomato. Standard. I take a bite.
It tastes like nothing. Not bad, just aggressively mediocre. The turkey is dry, the bacon limp, the tomato flavorless in that special way of winter tomatoes. The chips are crunchy, salty, edible. Everything is technically food, but none of it is worth remembering.
My mind drifts to the leftovers in my fridge. Lumpia, crisp and golden. Adobo, rich and dark, flavors layered in a way that’s both comforting and electric. The curry, simmered for hours until every bite is perfect. All balanced over a bed of fluffy and fragrant rice.
This sandwich is an insult.
I finish it anyway, pay quickly, and leave before the waitress can ask about dessert. The bells over the door laugh at me as I go.
Back at the clinic, I check the clock. No other appointments. I could update my files. Clean and reorganize…something, anything.
After all, I am a professional. I do not rearrange my schedule for the siren call of leftovers.
Except, apparently, I do.
Twenty minutes later, I close down the clinic and I’m in my kitchen, heating Liana’s curry exactly as she instructed. The scent fills the room, thick and intoxicating, making my mouth water in a way that café sandwich never could. The first bite is a shock to the system: rich. Layered.
Home.
I groan, helpless to stop eating until the tupperware is squeaky clean. I lick every last drop of food, knowing that I’ll want more tomorrow.
I smellher before she even opens the door. That sweet scent of flour and sugar, now familiar after just one meeting, drifts through my clinic like a ghost. It weaves through the antiseptic and herbs, something new, something that makes my nose twitch.
Liana Reyes. The walking disaster with the magical food and chaotic homestead. I try to ignore the way my tail flicks, betraying the interest I refuse to acknowledge.
She’s chaos in motion. One minute, she’s bribing me with the softest, fluffiest bread I’ve ever tasted, so good I nearly moaned on the spot. The next, she’s standing in my doorway, eyes wide, almost afraid to enter my clinic.
