Page 5 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

That’s definitely one for future therapy sessions.

He leads me to a room at the corridor’s end. Unlike the warm lighting of the waiting area, this space blazes with clinical brightness along the stainless steel and white cabinets. Containers of medical instruments line glass shelves in neat rows. A dog breed chart hangs beside what appears to be a canine skeletal diagram.

Setting the carrier on the steel examining table, he opens it and peers inside. His entire demeanor transforms as if someone flipped a switch. “Come here,” he murmurs. His voice flows calm now, with a gentle lilt I hadn’t heard before. Even his face changes. The perpetual scowl dissolves into a smile, softening the hard angles of his jaw.

The transformation steals my breath. This must be the real him, the man beneath the gruff exterior.

The cat ventures cautiously from the carrier. Mr. Animal Lover strokes it. His hand is oversized against the small creature. His fingers work with expertise, scratching behind its ears until the cat’s eyes drift closed as it leans into his touch.

He begins his examination, checking its eyes and ears with a small penlight. The cat remains still as he inspects its teeth and gums. He bends its paws back and forth with impossible tenderness for hands so large. After listening to the cat’s vitals with a tiny stethoscope, he straightens with a sigh. “All you need, kitten, is something in your belly and a nice hot bath.”

He walks away, leaving the little beast on the steel table. It turns toward me with yellow eyes full of contempt as if to say,See? I win.I can’t argue with that.

While the hot vet rummages through cabinets, I press my back against the cool wall, trying to disappear. Ten cages line the room, seven occupied by hostile guests. One dog towers over the others. I know nothing about animals or breeds, but this one could devour me in a single bite if it escaped its cage.

Asshole-Superman returns with a bowl of what smells like cat food. “Here you go, kitty.”

I roll my eyes at the tenderness he lavishes on the little beast.

His head turns toward me, and the transformation plays out before me. Eyebrows drawing together. Jaw setting. Nostrils flaring. Pupils dilating. In an instant, tender-animal-lover vanishes behind stern-imposing-man.

“So,” he says as his gaze slides down my body. “What should we do now?”

“Huh?” My eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?” My voice pitches higher than usual.

“Were you going the speed limit?” Challenge radiates from every syllable.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Of course,” I lie, guilt practically releasing from my skin.

For the first time, the corner of his mouth quivers. Almost a smile. He snorts. Despite the cat’s protest, he removes the food bowl and places it in the carrier, then deposits the cat after it. After setting the cat and the carrier on a shelf, he rummages through cabinets again, producing a bottle of red liquid and a roll of paper like those in doctors’ offices. He sprays the table, and a sharp disinfectant scent soon fills the air. He then wipes it down and unrolls a sheet of paper over the surface.

“Take off your pants.”

“Wait, what?” My jaw drops. Did I hear correctly?

“I can’t treat your knee otherwise,” he explains, as if requesting casual nudity is normal. His tone remains clinical and detached. “Listen, I don’t have all night,” he adds, glancing at the ornate wall clock. Already past nine.

I stare into his eyes while heat pools between my legs. He’s like a GQ model, one of those rugged, lumberjack types with his plaid shirt and unruly hair. Just enough beard shadow to accent that strong jawline. Oh, Superman, what have I gotten myself into?

I inhale deeply and fumble with my jeans’ buttons. Something about this man compels obedience. More than that, I want to submit, maybe drop to hands and knees and let him spank me for being bad.

I shake my head, banishing those images straight from low-budget porn. It’s been eight months since my last relationship, or better yet since Jake decided to find himself in Costa Rica with a yoga instructor named Amber.

Finally unfastening my pants, I slide them down my thighs. While hopping on one leg to pull them from my ankles, I lose balance, grab the exam table’s edge, and end up bent over it, making the paper crinkle underneath me. Mortification washes over me as I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Everything all right?” His voice comes hoarser, deeper than before.

I nod without opening my eyes, lacking the courage to meet his gaze. Another deep breath. What a sight I must be with my stupid Little Caesars cap and orange jacket still on while my pants pool around my ankles, bent over an examining table in a vet’s office.

I stand and bend again to remove my pants when the monster dog erupts in barks. A small scream escapes me as I jump back, forgetting my ankles are still trapped in denim. Superman lunges for my hand but misses by milliseconds.

My ass hits the floor with a painful thud. Cold linoleum presses against my bare thighs, and I’ve just given Asshole-Superman a complimentary view of my plain cotton underwear.

Slowly, I raise my gaze to his face. He’s got a hand over his mouth, stifling a burst of laughter. Those gorgeous green eyes crinkle at the corners, and his shoulders shake.

“Are you laughing at me?” Indignation floods my voice as I cross my arms and glare.

“No,” he replies, amusement coloring each word. “Absolutely not.” A dimple appears on his left cheek that I didn’t notice before.

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