Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 31927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
I chug half the coffee while reviewing the calendar on my phone. Two surgeries today, back-to-back, plus consults and a sprinkling of vaccine appointments. My blood sugar crashes just reading the schedule, and it’s not even six-thirty a.m.
On my way out, I double-check Mr. Snugglebutt’s water bowl and open a brand-new Fluffy Toy Mouse to distract my spoiled feline companion.
The parking lot is dark, and I check my surroundings as I walk to my dirt-dusted Civic—a habit I learned living in the big city. The sky is that weird pre-dawn blue, half-light, like the sun can’t make up its mind. It only takes me three minutes to drive to work.
I park behind the clinic and take a deep breath, trying to talk myself into acting like a normal human instead of a barely reanimated corpse. My hair is doing that frizzy-mop thing it loves so much. There’s an actual coffee stain on the front of my scrubs.
Honestly, I’m crushing it.
Inside, the lights are already on. Hanna’s the only other one here at this ungodly hour, and I find her in the break room, working on a protein bar and scrolling on her phone.
“Rough night?” She smirks, eyeing the bags under my eyes.
“You have no idea,” I groan, throwing my purse in a cubby and slouching on the nearest chair. “Snugglebutt tried to suffocate me in my sleep.”
Hanna actually snorts, protein bar paused midair. “That’s what you get for letting a beast like that share your bed.” Her eyes flick to my coffee-stained scrubs, and she cackles. “You look like absolute hell.”
“Oh, trust me, I feel worse.” I hunch over my travel mug and inhale toxic levels of caffeine. My brain is still melting down over last night. Every time I blink, I see Beckett’s lips on mine, his muscular body pressed against me, the way his hand pinning me to the wall made me want to come on the spot. Jesus. Hormones, chill.
I focus on the list for today, but my brain’s still in Beckett-land. I’m supposed to be prepping for a spay surgery, but every time I look down at my hands, I’m thinking about last night. The way he crowded me up against the door and kissed me like it was the last night on earth. My entire body goes hot and melty again just remembering it. Freaking hell. I am never going to make it through this day if I keep replaying last night on a mental highlight reel. I clench my jaw and grab the chart off the top of my stack, shoving every dirty Beckett fantasy into a locked box somewhere behind my eyeballs. I’m a professional. I’m a doctor with a waiting room full of patients and a calendar so packed it should come with a warning label.
Focus, Elsie. I march down the hall, ignoring the way my traitorous hormones are still throbbing with every step. There’s a senior citizen poodle out front who probably needs to get through her dental cleaning without me drooling about Beckett’s monster biceps. I paste on my best “normal human” face and let my autopilot training take over.
All I have to do is not think about the kiss. Or the way he growled my name. Or the plans for Friday night that make my heart beat double time.
After my first patient, I hide in my office and pull out my phone to shoot Beckett a text. Sue me. I need to check on my patient.
Me
How’s the little faker this morning?
Hottie
The little shit already tried to steal an entire sleeve of graham crackers off the counter.
Me
Glad to hear he’s back to normal.
Hottie
I was just about to text you and check how your morning is going.
Me
It’s a typical day. How’s your day?
Hottie
Typical day here too.
Hanna sticks her head in the door. “Mr. Evans’s pet goat ate a sock.” I roll my eyes and quickly send one last text.
Me
I’ll have to get back to you later. I have a goat emergency.
I see his thumbs-up emoji as I drop my phone back in my pocket.
After a long, busy day, I drag my exhausted body up the cracked steps to my apartment, and I know I’m in trouble.
My arms are full of paperwork and a lunch bag I never got around to opening. My feet are barking, and I’m ninety percent sure there’s a huge bruise on my cheek from the goat head butting me.
I barely manage to get the key in the lock before Mr. Snugglebutt bolts out from behind the door and launches a full-frontal ankle assault.
“Jesus!” I yelp, almost dropping everything I’m holding. He weaves between my legs, fluffing up and letting loose a meow that could shatter glass. If hunger were an Olympic event, Mr. Snugglebutt would have multiple gold medals.
I dump my stuff in the entryway and squint into the half-dark. My apartment looks exactly the way I left it, messy chic. Shoes by the couch. Cat toys everywhere.