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)
Hanna’s lurking in the corner, pretending to check supplies, but her eyes are glued to us. I ignore her, barely, and stride down the hall like I’m not picturing what he’d look like pressed up against the back of my office door.
I open the observation room door and bite my lip to keep from laughing. Beans is standing on his stubby legs with his big pink snout pressed to the glass, giving us the world’s saddest “please rescue me, I’m starving” routine. The little stinker is absolutely fine and already plotting his next snack heist.
Beckett Hot crowds in behind me, and I swear to God, my body goes into total meltdown. His heat is right there. His arm brushes mine, and suddenly, I forget how to breathe.
Beans lets out a squeal and starts tap-dancing, hooves drumming on the floor in perfect potbelly pig percussion as he barrels straight for Beckett.
Beckett scoops Beans right up, and holy cow, watching those giant hands cradle ninety pounds of pig like it’s nothing? My brain is just gone. Melted. He strokes Beans’s ears, murmuring in that deep, dangerous voice.
I smother a laugh and pull out my most professional voice. “He’s been fine all day. No vomiting, all normal bathroom behavior, and he’s turned eating into his number one priority again. I even repeated the bloodwork just in case, and it came back normal.”
Beckett sets the pig down and gives him a little scratch behind the ears.
“You probably think I’m a goddamn idiot,” he mutters, embarrassment tinting his ears bright red. “Dragging my pig in here like it’s a five-alarm fire—”
I laugh, because honestly? That’s my favorite kind of client. “On the contrary,” I tease, “I love an owner who treats his animals like family. You should see the stuff people brought into my old practice. I once had a guy show up at midnight claiming his chihuahua had been abducted by aliens and came back possessed.” I laugh at the memory and lean close to whisper, “I’d bet my next paycheck he was never sick. I think he just wanted all the attention. There’s nothing physically wrong with him. I think your pig is a world-class actor.”
“Little shit,” Beckett groans, glaring at Beans, who’s busy hamming it up for the audience like he’s on Broadway.
I can’t help but laugh at the look on Beckett’s face. “Some pets will do anything to get their owner’s undivided love. You, Beckett Hot, have a drama queen on your hands.”
Beckett huffs out a laugh and finally relaxes, one hand scrubbing over his face. It’s oddly endearing, this tough guy practically melting at the sight of his now-perfectly healthy pig.
“Jesus, Beans, you’re a menace,” Beckett groans, but he’s already crouched down, scratching Beans behind the ears and whispering absolute baby nonsense to him. He hesitates, eyes darting to mine and then to his very healthy, very dramatic pig. “We owe you big time.” He gestures to Beans. “If you’re not busy, we’d love to buy you dinner.”
Every neuron in my brain shrieks Yes, please. Take me. But my realistic brain cells cut in. “I’m not really dressed for going out.”
“I could order pizza.” Beckett’s too quick. “We can eat at my house, so Pork and Beans don’t cause any problems.” The man is relentless. His smirk is a pure, filthy promise that I feel all the way to my soul.
“Pizza works.” My voice is barely above a squeak, but at least my ovaries don’t leap right out of my body. “I’m starving.” Lie. I could survive off the adrenaline currently flooding my veins and still have enough energy left to run a marathon in heels.
He grins, slow and predatory, and I’m not sure if I want to climb him or run for my life. “Perfect. I’ll give you my address.”
I’m pretty sure if he asked me to go on a three-day camping trip in Antarctica, I’d say yes. “I just have to close up, and then I’ll head right over.”
I hustle through closing up the clinic like my ass is on fire. Maybe it is. Hard to tell when every inch of me is basically vibrating with some kind of “holy crap, I’m about to have dinner with the hottest man in the county” energy.
Lock up. Lights off. Breathe in, breathe out. I do a quick mirror check—not great, but my hair is in a ponytail and at least I don’t have pig snot on my shirt. Not that Beckett Hot seemed like the type to care. Actually, he probably digs a little bit of chaos.
For one panicked second, my brain short-circuits. Holy cow. I’m in so much trouble here.
I all but sprint out of the clinic. There’s a smoking hot firefighter waiting for me with pizza and a smile that could short out the national power grid, but first I have to survive a pit stop at home to feed the real tyrant in my life.