Page 8 of There's Something About Dragons
Oh, nope, it roarsoutsideme. The bathroom door splinters as I fully shift. My enormous feral dragon takes out three of the bathroom walls, bringing down a rain of drywall and tile. Flames erupt from my chest, igniting the shower curtain.
So much for making a good impression on her dad. At least with all the smoke, he won’t see that I came all over the side of the sink.
But the cops are yelling now in tinny human voices, waving their little weapons around. I have to get out of here. I don’t fit through the front door. Should I kick down a wall or go through the roof? Why do I feel so dizzy?
Oh no, I think, when I look down and see the blood streaming down my leg, tatters of the human-sized, pale-blue pants stuck to my scales.I’m not going to get my tuxedo deposit back.
And then I pass out.
Chapter 4
Cari
Present Day
These conversations are always hard. I cradle the twenty-two-year-old cat in my arms, stroking her matted, gray fur. Her eyes are hazy, but her rusty purr tells me that she’s still in there.
“She’s not in pain, so I think if we keep her thyroid under control, she’ll have a good quality of life. It’s just a matter of whether you can manage the infusions,” I say gently to her owner, Tristan Vance. He and his ancient kitty, Imp, are frequent flyers at my vet clinic due to her age and multitude of conditions. This is the second time he’s been in this week.
“I can do it,” he says, all brash confidence. He flashes me a bright-white smile as he slips off his suit jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves, exposing his muscular forearms. They flex as he picks up the carrier he brought her in. “I’ll rearrange my schedule. It’s no problem. If I have to travel for work, I’ll hire a kitty nurse.”
“No one would blame you if you decide that it’s best to…” I swallow the lump in my throat. Maybe these conversations are difficult because my blind old dog, Radar is getting up there in years. Eventually, I’ll have to make a call like this.
“I can do it.” Tristan squares his broad shoulders optimistically. “With your help? She’ll make it to thirty.”
He holds open the carrier door, and I gently place her inside the plush interior that he had customized for her medical needs. As a high-powered investor without a wife or kids, Tristan has a lot of disposable wealth to spoil his cat. Unlike most pet owners, cost is never an issue when he’s deciding what care she should receive.
“Impy is a lucky, lucky girl to have you.”
He latches the carrier door, his smile spreading. “I like to think I’m the lucky one.”
“I wish more people were like you, Tristan.” I pat his arm and open the exam-room door, stifling my yawn. It’s been a long day, my feet hurt, and I squeezed in Tristan and Imp afterclosing because her situation is so delicate. “Cynthia will get you checked out at the front desk.”
He hesitates in the doorway. “I hope this isn’t too forward, but would you like to get a drink later? Last time I asked, it was the middle of kitten season so you were slammed, but I thought now might be a better time.”
I cough to cover my surprise. I was pretty sure I’d made it clear last time that I wasn’t interested. Someone as handsome as him probably isn’t used to being turned down. “I’m sorry, Tristan. As a rule, I don’t date the owners of my patients.”
His face almost blurs as it cycles through a series of emotions, landing on his dazzling smile. “Oh, I meant as friends, of course. We have so much in common, it would be fun to spend time together outside of the clinic. I do a lot of work with animal charities that you might be interested in.”
He knew just the right button to push. Charity work is my passion. I already spend my Saturdays doing free spay-and-neuter for local shelters, but I’d love to do more. But his interest in me is pretty transparent, and I know that any meet-up, especially over drinks, is just a date in disguise.
“That’s cool! Why don’t you email me more info about them, and I’ll take a look.” I usher him out and close the door behind him before he can come up with another reason.
I wait until his footsteps fade and the clinic-door bells let me know that he’s gone. It’s only then that I spot his expensive wool suit jacket draped over the back of one of the chairs in the exam room. I have to laugh. Oldest trick in the book.
I grab it and take it out to the front desk where Cynthia, the angel of my clinic operation, is restocking the waiting room with pamphlets and tissues. She straightens up when I put the jacket on her desk, her dyed-red bob swinging around her soft jawline.
“He forgot this,” I explain. “Can you text him so he can stop by in the morning to pick it up?”
Cynthia’s kind, lined face cracks. “I doubt he needs the reminder. I heard what he asked you. You should put the man out of his misery and let him take you on a date.”
Panic flares in my belly, but I push it down. “You know I don’t date clients.”
Or anyone. Haven’t dated for years. Not since vet school when I started receiving the messages with fuzzy photos taken of me from afar. Voice mails promising that “we’ll be together soon.” I blocked the senders, but then weird packages showed up in the mail instead. Locks of hair. Maps with coordinates marked in remote areas of the Cascade Mountains.
I went to the cops. The police said the stalking was probably due to my social media presence. My dog blog about Radar, with over a million followers, paid my vet school tuition, but it also meant I got a lot of attention, some of it unwanted.
I did everything right to make the stalker go away. Changed phone numbers, made a new email account. Paid an assistant to screen my mail. Scrubbed my face from my socials so my posts only showed Radar. Stopped looking at DMs. It worked for a while.
