Page 36 of Enemies to Lovers

I plop into the passenger seat, and Hunter’s bushy brow lifts, and he nods to the entrance where I stood with Val.

“You all right?”

“No.” I buckle in. “But I shouldn’t have alcohol.”

He chuckles, putting the car in gear. “I’ll get you home and put you to bed with some milk.”

I shove him, but it’s half-hearted. The other half is still back there with Val, shaking her hand and wishing I hadn’t messed up so badly.

January moves like the tortoise, and then February is the hare. March comes with less snow and, unfortunately, more dog poop.

“Brewster, whyyyyy?” I whine from the floor, scooping up another load he left for me. I plop it into the bag and grab the Lysol wipes. “Sixth time today, buddy. Is everything okay?”

His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth, his lobster soaked beneath his front leg. Darn him for looking so cute; I can’t stay mad.

I blow out a sigh and push from the floor. There’s another someone who looks too cute to stay mad at, but I still manage. Miles and I have fixed up a few animals now with a few clipped debates and glares, but no more lectures from Professor Clark. I’m not sure if I’m impressing Dr. Goff, though, and he probably hasn’t either. The few times the doctor has come to observe, I’ve pranced around on eggshells, quadruple checking any medication and making sure Miles is a few feet away before I administer anything.

An adorable kitty was our patient last week. Poor thing is a cat who likes to sit outside Starbucks and eat and drink whatever is left behind on the benches. He’s severely overweight, and the manager brought him in after Professor Clark suggested it. The way he looked at her made me think it was just a flirtation thing, but Professor Clark showed no signs of interest.

It breaks my heart that all our patients are shelters or wildlife. Third years get the “testers,” which is a horrible way of saying if we mess up, what does it matter?

Oh, but it matters a lot. To all of us. Miles, especially, as I’m learning. Then again, he might have more attachment since he works at the shelter.

I head outside and toss the bag into the garbage, my brain wandering as I make my way back.

Stupid Miles. Brewster won’t go near me, so I can’t get a proper diagnosis for his sudden desire to poop all over my condo. But I bet if Miles was here, he’d sit still and be all polite. Ugh.

I do not want to ask for Miles’ help. We’ve worked together, sure, but do we get along? Not sure “tolerate” is the same as “getting along,” and I don’t want to argue over Brewster. I’ll get protective and defensive, he’ll tell me he knows my dog better than I do, and we’ll be at each other’s throats again, and I’ll hate him for looking so darn sexy while he’s growling at me.

And if I’m honest, it’s not just that helookssexy. Him loving up on animals and taking care of them, and that sweet concern in those hazel eyes and the pull of his brow when he’s concentrating, and the way he says, “Val…” when he’s completely exasperated by me…

Ugh. I hate him.

I have to hate him. If I don’t, I’ll just go right back to loving him like I did before he took my heart out and played with it.

I flump onto the couch and point a stern finger at my dog. “You stink. You’re cute. But you’re a stinky stinker.”

The click of the front door filters in the room, and I throw my hand up in a wave.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Logan says, and I hear him shuffle with his shoes and jacket as he puts them into the hall closet. Brewster gladly says hello, wagging his tail and showing off his soaked lobster. Logan tosses it, his nose scrunching when he catches my eye. “He poop again?”

I blow a raspberry. “Yes.”

“Maybe take him in.” Logan goes to the kitchen, opening the fridge. Then he sits in the recliner, tossing an apple into the air. Brewster, ever the traitor, slumps to the floor at his feet. “Or examine him yourself.”

“I’ve tried.” I watch Logan stroke the top of Brewster’s head, the muscles wriggling his fingertips as Brewster gnaws on his lobster. The envy in me is not subtle. “I want to take him to the lab, but it’s closed this week.”

“Oh, right.”

It’s spring break already, and Brewster didn’t show any pooping signs like this until last night. It’s been one hell of a day.

“Guess I could call the vet…”

“Why do that when you can do it yourself?” Logan takes a bite of his apple. “Save some money.”

“What if I can’t wait a week?” I push from the couch, and Brewster stops gnawing, watching my every move. He shrinks the closer I get to him, and I stop halfway across the living room. My shoulders slump.

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