Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set)

by Katherine Lace

  “I don’t know,” Jesse admits. “He’s got behavior issues. Cats act up when they’re sick, right? Or when they get hurt?”

  The doctor purses her lips. “Yes, they can. It’s not unusual for a cat to act out when it’s in pain.” She glances at her watch. “I can go ahead and look him over, see if it’s anything obvious. Maddy, could you take Mr. King to an exam room? I’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

  I nod and wave Jesse toward the back part of the office. He picks the carrier up again, taking a second to balance as the cat shifts its weight, sending the carrier tilting. I pick the closest exam room and gesture him in. He sets the carrier on the table and shakes his hand out, flexing his fingers. “He weighs a ton.”

  “What’s his name?” I bend to peer into the carrier and see a furry gray face and yellow eyes looking back at me. He doesn’t look particularly demonic. In fact, with his gray fur and the long, white whiskers framing his pink mouth, he’s rather pretty.

  “Thor,” Jesse says, and I grin.

  “Hi, Thor,” I say, and decide not to put my fingers into the carrier. “How are things in Midgard this week? Have you seen the rest of the Avengers recently?”

  Thor doesn’t answer. Jesse looks at me like I’m nuts. I’m used to that reaction from people, but, strangely, it stings a little coming from Jesse. I clear my throat and straighten, putting my professional face back on. “Has he been eating all right?”

  “Yes.” Jesse shifts into what looks like a more professional mode, too, and I know he’ll take my questions seriously. “I feed him twice a day. He always eats it all.”

  “Vomiting?”

  “Not really. Hair balls once in a while. Usually in the middle of the night.” He pauses. “Is it normal for him to sound like he’s choking on his own spleen when he does that?”

  I consider the sounds my childhood cat used to make in the process of harking a hair ball into my dress shoes. “Yes, I’d say so.”

  “Then no, no unusual vomiting.”

  “Diarrhea?”

  He makes a face. “How am I supposed to know that?”

  “You look in his litter pan.” This guy knows nothing about cats. Why does he have one? “Sometimes you have to move the litter around to see what his poo looks like.”

  Jesse makes the kind of face you’d expect someone to make when you tell them they need to play in cat poo. “Seriously?”

  It causes me almost literal physical pain to maintain a straight face. “Seriously. Have you seen anything unusual in his litter pan?”

  “No.”

  “So he seems healthy, overall?”

  “As far as I can tell.” His tone is worried now, like he’s afraid maybe he missed something. Fireman Jesse King seems to be totally out of his depth. It’s so different from the overconfident, bossy man he was last night that I can’t help but warm to him a little. At the same time, I feel sorry for him.

  “You don’t really seem like a cat person,” I offer. That’s the understatement of the century. “How long have you had him?”

  “Two weeks.” He frowns. “And you’re right. I’ve never had a cat before. I…inherited him.”

  “Inherited?” That sounds like an intriguing story.

  “Yeah.” Apparently he’s not going to tell that story, though, because next he says, “He’s just… He’s psychotic. Tears things up. Breaks things.” Jesse lowers his voice, his eyes wide like he’s talking about a demon that lives in his house. “He attacks me when I walk in the door. I’ve got scars—”

  He breaks off as Dr. Raczek comes in. As usual, she looks calm and perfectly put together, even after a full day in the office. This is a woman who would sort through your cat’s poop without blinking an eye. “Well,” she says, reaching for the carrier. “What have we here?”

  She opens the front of the carrier. Jesse literally takes a step back, something like real terror in his eyes. I swallow hard to keep from laughing. It’s a valiant effort, but it doesn’t work, and I have to cough to cover it up.

  “I wouldn’t—” Jesse starts, but then stops as Dr. Raczek reaches right into the carrier.

  The cat—Thor—meows a couple of times as the doctor extracts him. He seems perfectly calm now, pupils big and round, ears up, claws sheathed. He’s huge—probably one of the biggest Maine Coons I’ve ever seen, but some of that could be due to the incredibly fluffy gray fur. He looks like he hasn’t been brushed in a while. Considering Jesse’s problems just getting him into the carrier, I’m not surprised.

  “You need some grooming, there, don’t you, big guy?” Dr. Raczek croons to him. Jesse just stares, wide-eyed, as if the doctor is performing some sort of sorcery. “What’s his name?”

  “Thor,” Jesse says. “He’s… Wow, he doesn’t act like that with me.”

  Dr. Raczek chuckles. “I’m sure there’s a reason he’s acting out. Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of things.”

  She settles Thor on the exam table and pets him while she goes through a list of questions, many of them the same ones I already asked. Jesse answers them all again, still staring like he can’t believe what the cat’s doing. Or not doing, as the case may be. Dr. Raczek nods sagely, stroking Thor’s head. Thor starts to purr. It’s so loud I can hear it across the room.

  “What’s that sound?” Jesse asks anxiously.

  “He’s purring.” Dr. Raczek scratches between Thor’s ears. “He likes this.”

  “I’ve never heard that before.” The distress in his voice is palpable, like Thor’s affection for the vet is a personal affront. “Of course, he barely lets me touch him, much less scratch his head.”

  Wow. He’s had the cat two weeks and he’s never heard it purr? That’s kind of sad.

  The doctor nods again. “Well, Mr. King, we’re going to see what we can do to change that. I’m going to take a blood sample and run some tests to be sure, but I think your cat is perfectly healthy. I think he just needs some behavior modification.”

  “Behavior modification?”

  “Yes. Cats often act out when they feel insecure, or when their environment has changed. It sounds like both of these might be the case here. I’d suggest you talk to a cat behaviorist and put together a plan of action to help the cat adjust and feel safer in his new environment. Have you seen any of those TV shows about animal training? It’s a bit like that. The behaviorist will evaluate the animal and the environment, find out what Thor’s triggers are, and see what can be done to modify his behavior. The results are often quite good.”

  Jesse is quiet for a moment, a look of incredulity on his face. “So…Thor needs a therapist? Cats have therapists? Is that what the world has come to these days?” His tone turns mocking. “How does that even work? Does he have to lie on a couch, because that’ll last about five minutes before he shreds it.”

  So much for warming to him. His attitude is starting to get on my nerves. I wonder why he has the cat at all—why would someone bequeath a cat to a guy who has no idea how to take care of it? And worse, who doesn’t appear to even like the poor critter?

  Dr. Raczek laughs, apparently unoffended. She’s as good with people as she is with animals, which is one of the reasons I really like working for her.

  “No, there’s no couch, as a general rule. It’s not really therapy like with humans,” she explains, “although sometimes an animal’s behaviors do have something to do with past traumas or even present discomfort. I’m going to refer you to somebody who can look at behavioral modification. In fact…” Here, her gaze slides toward me, and I know what’s coming. “Madison here has been working with me to learn about exactly what we’re discussing. She’s helped several of our clients work through difficulties with their animals, particularly rescue animals and pets who’ve had to change to new homes.”

  She fishes in the breast pocket of her lab coat and hands over a business card. Good grief, she carries my business cards with her? I stare, taken aback as she passes the card to Jesse.

  “Here y
ou go.” Dr. Raczek winks at me. “There’s her contact information. You two should chat, and maybe you can get Thor sorted out.”

  At this point she heads toward the door, cat cradled in her arms, to take him back for his blood test. Thor is still purring. Jesse is looking at my card and appears to be about as dumbfounded as I am.

  “I’ll give you a call,” the doctor says, “if I find anything alarming in the blood sample. But I think the behavior work is what you’re going to need.”

  The door clicks shut, leaving Jesse and me in a strange silence. Finally he looks up at me with a twinkle in his eyes. “So. You’re a cat therapist?”

  “Behaviorist,” I correct him, cheeks going hot again. “And I’m not certified yet—I’m training. But at this point I’ve had quite a bit of real-world experience, thanks to Dr. Raczek.” I stop there, holding back an urge to overexplain the situation. Animal behaviorists tend to have doctorate degrees, but I work with people’s pets on a semi-formal basis based on training I’ve gotten on the job and my own independent studies. I’ve always been good with animals, and it’s serving me pretty well so far.

  The corner of his mouth quirks up, and I brace myself for some kind of smart-ass comment. He doesn’t disappoint.

  “I guess a job is a job. Talking to cats all day can’t be too hard, right?”

  That sends my hackles up. “Look.” It’s all I can do to keep from wagging my finger in his face. At least I’ve got more than just a towel on this time, so I don’t have to worry about flashing him while I give him what for. “I’m a single mom. Just because I don’t save people’s lives and drag naked girls out of non-burning buildings doesn’t mean what I do isn’t important. Helping people with their animals brings in some extra money and even helps them keep their pets instead of taking them to a shelter. There’s no shame in that.”

  He grins. It’s a smug look. I know I shouldn’t have risen to his bait, but I did it anyway. “I didn’t say there was. No need to get all defensive.”

  “You implied it.”

  “How?”

  “With your face.” That sounds ridiculous coming out of my mouth, but it’s the truth. His expression held a world of commentary.

  Jesse laughs. “How do you imply something with your face?”

  I shake my head. This guy is a piece of work. “You just do.”

  “Hmm. I guess I have skills, too.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. I’ve had enough. “Well, whatever you think of me, it doesn’t really matter, because I’m not going to work with your cat.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I’m not going to work with your cat.”

  “But the doctor just said you could help me out.” He looks genuinely put out, but I’m not going to bend on this one.

  I know what makes for a successful relationship when it comes to behavior modification, and this guy isn’t it. He won’t listen to what I tell him, he won’t do the work to reinforce positive behaviors, and his cat will continue to be a problem. I know his type. He probably thinks it’d be more appropriate to discipline Thor with a rolled-up newspaper than to actually get to the root of his issues. It’s the worst possible profile for a pet owner in this situation.

  “Dr. Raczek just gave a recommendation. That doesn’t guarantee I’ll be willing to take you on.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be willing to? You need the money, right?”

  “I only work with clients who I know are a good match for my techniques, and from what I’ve seen, you’re not.”

  Now he looks offended. “Why not? I’m motivated.” He waves his red-streaked arm at me. “I want him to stop this shit.”

  “You’re too confrontational. I don’t think you have the patience for successful behavioral therapy.”

  “I have infinite patience.” His voice rises in volume, as if to emphasize his point.

  “So much patience you knock people’s doors down?”

  “That was an emergency. Besides—you need the money, right? So why would you turn down the opportunity?”

  He has a point. This cat isn’t going to be a quick fix. It could take weeks. Multiple appointments. During which I’d have to deal with his attitude, his bluster, and his incredibly hot body flexing far too close to me, making me forget he’s trouble with all-capital letters. “Because you’re annoying.”

  A grin staggers across his face. “I can’t be that bad. You opened the door for me.”

  “Don’t take it personally. I have a soft spot for animals.”

  “Maybe I’ll grow on you.”

  “I prefer warts.”

  “Ouch. What would Dr. Raczek say?” he counters, mangling the pronunciation of her name. “She recommended you—you’ll make her look bad if you say no.”

  “I’ll make her look bad if I say yes and I don’t get good results. And I have a strong feeling I won’t get good results.”

  “Right. Because I’m impatient. What else? How else do I fall short on your list of ideal clients?” He’s rising to the challenge, moving a little closer to me so he can loom. I can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose or not, but it’s irritating. I hold my ground.

  “Chances are you won’t do what I tell you, and then the cat will keep being a bad cat and you’ll blame me and this veterinary practice, and that would be bad.”

  “I just want him sorted out so he’s not an asshole.”

  “Maybe you should provide a better role model.”

  He laughs suddenly, to my surprise, and when I turn back to look at him, he’s grinning. The expression on his face, the white flash of his teeth framed by a few days’ growth of dark-blond stubble, heats me up again. Damn him. Why does he have to be so hot? It’s not fair.

  I wonder what kind of lame comeback he’s going to throw my way, but just then the doctor returns with Thor. The cat has a small spot shaved on one front leg, and he looks like he’s been combed a bit. “All done,” the doctor announces cheerfully. “Like I said, Mr. King, I’ll give you a call if anything unusual turns up in the blood work. And I’m going to give you a recommendation for a groomer. Thor’s got some mats in his fur that might be contributing to his bad behavior.”

  She slides the cat back into the carrier. He goes willingly, meowing piteously as she closes the door on him. Then she looks up, and I can tell the exact moment when she realizes Jesse and I are somewhat less than comfortable with each other.

  She clears her throat. “Well. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. King. Hopefully some behavioral work will help you and Thor live together more peacefully.”

  Jesse goes to pick up the cat carrier. Thor hisses as the carrier lifts from the table, but Jesse seems less bothered by it this time. He gives me a wink—the kind of wink that makes you want to slap him.

  “Thanks, Doc,” he says, then looks at my card and adds, “I’ll be giving you a call, Miss Bowan.”

  “Fine,” I tell him, and watch him go.

  I’m not staring at his fine, tight ass as he walks out the door. Nope. Most certainly not.

  I lock the practice up—again—and go back to my desk to shut down my computer. The letter’s lying on the desk. I can’t clearly remember taking it out of my purse, but I must have. Probably when I was sorting through it looking for my phone. The envelope lies there staring at me, daring me to open it.

  I grab it, snatch a letter opener from the desk, and open the envelope.

  “Dear Ms. Bowan, blah blah blah,” I mutter to myself, and then stop. I can hardly believe what I’m reading.

  They want me. They really want me.

  I read it again just to make sure, but, sure enough, it’s an acceptance letter. I can start veterinary school in the fall.

  I blink a few times, my eyes hot. I’m not crying, though. There’s a huge bubble of joy in the middle of my chest. I’ve wanted to get a letter like this for years. Since middle school. No, since grade school, although then I didn’t quite understand the process. I just knew I wanted to be a vet.

  Th
is is huge. This is my life—the only thing I’ve ever really wanted. For a second, I can see my life spreading out from this moment just the way I’d envisioned it. Going to school, getting a job as a veterinarian, starting up my own practice, caring for animals, keeping them safe and healthy.

  Then I look at the next page.

  The tuition is astronomical. Maybe it wouldn’t seem that way to some people, but for me, it’s outrageous. There’s no way I could ever afford it. Anxiety rises, curling around my previous happy thoughts and strangling them to death.

  My parents have told me they’ll help if I decide to go back to school, but thinking about talking to them ratchets that anxiety up several notches. It’s been a long time since we had that conversation, and honestly I don’t know how they would react if I asked them now.

  I have some money in savings, but it’s not a lot. Maybe a semester’s worth, and then it’d be gone. Maybe I could get a scholarship. They have lots of those for single moms who want to go back to school, right?

  Or I could have a long talk with Mr. Sexy Fireman’s cat and then charge him twice my normal rates. That’d give me enough to cover my books. Maybe.

  I take a long, frustrated breath and let it out. It’s impossible. I figured I’d worry about the money once I got past the hurdle of being accepted, but now I’ve been accepted and the money hurdle looms like the Great Wall of China.

  Sighing again, I slide the letter back into the envelope. I really should take the job with Fireman Jesse. It’s easy money, and even if it doesn’t bridge the gap between reality and my dream of vet school, it’ll at least pay for groceries.

  I put the letter back in my purse and tell myself I should forget about it.

  The next night is family dinner night, so after work I pick up Christopher and get him ready to head to my parents’ house. I don’t want to go. I never want to go. In fact, last time we went, I told Mom and Dad I wasn’t going to come tonight.

  But here I am. Going back on my sworn word and knocking on their front door. There’s a gigantic door knocker, but I refuse to use it. Their house is huge—way bigger than anybody actually needs—in a neighborhood full of huge houses with sweeping, manicured lawns, luxury cars in the garages, and a golf course two blocks away. My kind of place, that’s for sure.