Page 2 of Animal Instincts
He turned back to finish off the extravagant, cream-topped drink he’d just made with a generous dousing of syrup.
“There you go, one caramel and cream latte.”
Declan’s big, dazzling smile slashed across his face, and his sapphire blue eyes sparkled. Declan was a born flirt; like breathing, he did it without thought or discrimination.
The young woman he’d made the speciality coffee for tossed her fair hair and smiled at him from beneath her lashes. She sashayed away, throwing a glance over her shoulder, as she made her way to a vacant table.
Joss rolled his eyes. She wasn’t the first to flutter her eyelashes at Declan, and she wouldn’t be the last.
Barking up the wrong tree, love…
Rummaging under the counter, Joss found a large knife and began slicing up the huge, frosting covered carrot cake, freshly delivered by the wife of one of the local farmers, who kept Harbour Coffee supplied with homemade cakes and pastries.
“Excuse me, but we’ve been waiting for our second round of refreshments for some minutes now. Young man? You there. You, cutting up that cake.”
Lost in his work, Joss jumped at the nasal, bad tempered loud voice. An older guy, with bouffant hair and wearing some kind of knitted shawl, glared at him from the other side of the counter.
“I’ll sort that out.” Declan took the knife from Joss, and smirked. “Your talents are required elsewhere,” he murmured.
“I’ll be with you in just a few minutes, sir.”
“And two extra tea cakes this time.” The guy turned and stomped off.
“Certainly, sir. Would you like me to stuff them up your arse, sir?” Joss muttered as he began putting the order together.
Declan sniggered as he placed the sliced cake under a large glass dome. “Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”
Between them it took just a couple of minutes to pile up the tray with the coffee and cake required to feed the lovies’ muses.
“There you go. All ready to take through,” Declan said. “And try not to stuff it up—”
“Declan, can you come to my office when you have your break?”
Joss looked up. Charles was making his way towards the counter, all his attention on Declan. Joss’ eyes flickered between them. Declan was nodding, his eyes not meeting Charles’, who was looking at him with an intensity that caused Joss to pause… But he didn’t have time to think about it as another ill-tempered call beckoned him towards the Community Room, to serve the refreshments which would nourish Love’s Harbour’s literary elite.
TWO
“Yes, Mr. Peters. I can assure you Tyson will be fully recovered within the week, but only as long as you give him his medicine as directed—”
“Ahh? Can’t you speak up, boy? Stop mumbling.”
“For the love of god, give me strength,” Oliver muttered, and old Mr. Peters, who must have been at least ninety, scowled at him.
You heard that well enough…
“If Tyson’s not back to full strength — full strength with muscles on — by the end of the week, I’ll be back and wanting a refund. It’s scandalous, the price you’ve charged me for this little box of tablets.”
The old man gave the box a bad-tempered shake before picking up his cat carry case and making his slow way out, slamming the door behind him with more force than a nonagenarian had any right to exert.
Oliver shook his head. He wasn’t sure who was the balder, more toothless and arthritic, the cat or the owner. Or the more bad tempered.
He looked down at the long scratch, starting at the elbow and ending just short of his wrist. It wasn’t deep, but it needed treating, and he winced as he dabbed it with an antiseptic-sodden ball of cottonwool. Throwing the ball away, Oliver slumped down into the chair next to the examination bench, and rubbed his tired, dry eyes.
The old man had been the last in a day-long line of ungrateful, bad tempered owners and their equally ungrateful, bad tempered pets. Oliver had a way with animals. Usually. He could calm a hissing cat, turning it into a purring cute kitty, or a growling, fang-baring dog into the playful puppy it had once been. He had the gift, everybody said so. They’d certainly said it at his Chelsea veterinary practice, back in London. Or former practice. The hugely successful former practice he’d sold his share in, turning his back on the city before the ink had time to dry on the sale documents. But none of that magic was on display today.
“Maybe I should have stayed in London.” Spoken into the silence, Oliver’s words ricocheted around the consulting room. He sighed, and shook his head.
No, staying in London had been the last thing he wanted. Today had been one of those days, that was all. The break with the city he’d spent most of his life in was always going to come, it had just come a lot quicker, harder and a hell of a lot bloodier than he had ever imagined.
