Sam hands me a chart, chuckling under her breath. “Janice Clarke is worried that her dog Ruby is, well . . . she has this toy monkey and . . .” Sam whispers the rest of it.
I nod. “Ah, got it.”
Jonathan and I head into the exam room where Janice is wringing her wrinkled hands and pursing her lips.
“Hey, Janice. How’s our sweet Ruby-cakes today?” I ask, bending down to pet the wiggly dachshund mix.
“Oh, she’s fine, Dr. Goodman. She’s just fine. Except for one little thing.”
“What’s going on with Ruby?”
The woman’s cheeks turn cotton-candy pink. “She likes to, um, well, she likes to . . .” Janice lowers her head, takes a deep breath.
I pet Ruby’s back. “She has special feelings for this monkey? Is that it?”
Janice snaps up her gaze. “Yes! Exactly!”
I smile. “So you’ve got a dog who’s overly affectionate with a stuffed toy.”
“Yes,” Janice says, cringing. “But, Doctor, she won’t stop. She just keeps going at it. She drags the monkey off the shelf, she brings it to the bed, and she just, well, you know . . . for several minutes. She loves her stuffies. She sleeps with them, plays with them, even watches the washing machine when they go in there.”
“Seems like Ruby’s quite dedicated to her toys.”
“But why is she engaging in this behavior with the monkey? She’s a girl dog. I don’t understand. Is she gender-confused?”
“That’s not how it works, Janice. Canines are quite binary in their mating.”
“And she’s been fixed too!”
“Does she seem stressed or anxious?” I ask, and we briefly discuss and rule out other possible motives.
“Why is she doing this, then?” Janice asks.
“The same reason people do it.”
“Do you mean . . .?” Her hand flies to her chest, and she whispers, “I don’t hump a monkey.”
“I don’t either,” Jonathan mouths, and I shoot him a side-eye glance.
“Your dog is masturbating,” I tell Janice. “Since nothing seems wrong with her, she’s likely doing it because it feels good.”
A sheet of pure mortification slides over her face. “My dog is a pervert?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “No. She’s normal. It’s one hundred percent normal behavior. Both altered and intact dogs do it, and it’s not limited to males. Females do it too, and many dogs also exhibit courtship behavior toward the stuffed animals, or whatever the object of affection is.” I turn to Jonathan. “Perhaps you can explain what that is.”
Jonathan clears his throat. “It’s when the dog’s tail goes up and her ears rotate backward. They may also lick and paw. Also, when they perform pretend bows. Play bows. That’s all part of it.”
Janice gasps. “She does all of that.”
I clap her shoulder. “Then you have a very normal dog. If you don’t like it, perhaps take the monkey away from her.”
Janice shudders. “But she loves the monkey.”
“Indeed she does.”
Janice reaches for the small dog, scoops her up, and strokes her snout. “I just don’t know what to do.”
“It’s certainly something to think about,” Jonathan offers.
“Can we train her out of it?” Janice asks.
“If it’s truly important to you, simply remove the temptation. However, Ruby might develop a liking for a favorite shirt of yours then. Sometimes it’s best to just let dogs be dogs.”
We say goodbye to Janice and move on to other appointments. I greet Doug when he arrives, and we cross paths all day long, as we usually do. I also see Sloane chatting on the phone in his office, tapping away on her computer, and keeping her head down. Her blonde hair is piled high on her head in a messy bun with soft tendrils framing her face.
I’m not tempted.
Not tempted in the least.
I wave and say hello.
She says hi back.
Look at that. Aren’t we so damn cordial?
It’s easy, too, as we review the paperwork on her current dogs in foster. A breeze as we discuss the shots they need. A picnic as we devise a plan.
It’s all thanks to focus.
* * *
As the day draws to a close, Sam informs me that Lydia called, wanting to bring Sabrina in again. “This time, she’s evidently hyper.”
Jonathan shoots me an amused look as Sloane walks by. “That’s the Doctor Doolarge effect.”
Sloane stops in her tracks, arches a brow. “Doctor Doolarge?”
I groan.
Jonathan wiggles a brow. “Didn’t you hear? He had his name changed.”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “What am I going to do with you two clowns?” I say to Jonathan and Sam.
Sam shrugs. “I just don’t know, Doctor Doolarge.”
Sloane laughs as I head into the exam room for the last appointment of the day.
* * *
When I leave, I don’t see Sloane anywhere. I tell myself to focus on finishing paperwork, but maybe I’ll just poke my head into Doug’s office.
I find him there at his desk. “Hey, Malone. How was everything today?”
“It was great.”
“Not too disruptive having my girl here?”
“Not at all.” That feels mostly true. We did get along well.
“We can start on the spay and neuters tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I look around, as if Sloane is hiding behind a filing cabinet.
“Oh, she took off for the night. Said she had to go see a friend.”
Friend.
This bothers me more than it should.
I slide my blinders back on as I work out, head to dinner with Jason, and then go home.
By the time I’m ready to hit the sack, my phone buzzes with a text from her that completely disrupts all my hard-won focus.
10
Sloane: Good evening, Doctor Doolarge. Wherever did the name come from?
Malone: I knew I would never live that down.
Sloane: So . . . do tell!
Malone: A client called me that.
Sloane: Were you involved with her?
Malone: No, but she was openly hitting on me in front of Jonathan.
Sloane: Your clients hit on you???
Malone: This surprises you? It shocks you into disbelief?
Sloane: I’m not shocked. I’m . . . annoyed.
Malone: Ah, the plot thickens.
Sloane: Did you go out with her?
Malone: What do you think?
Sloane: Just tell me.
Malone: Why are you asking?
Sloane: Humor me.
Malone: Fine. No, I did not. Are you happy?
Sloane: Yes. I’m glad you didn’t go.
Malone: Your jealous side is adorable.
Sloane: I’m not jealous.
Malone: Maybe a little jealous?
Sloane: Just like you were jealous of Basil.
Malone: Completely jealous. Speaking of envy, is Basil the friend you’re with tonight?
Sloane: No. I’m with Clove. His sister. :)
Malone: *rolls eyes*
Sloane: You deserve it. :) I went out with my friend Piper. She had a bad day, so I cheered her up with some Italian cookies and my upbeat attitude. She’s the one I’ve been staying with, since she lives in Manhattan and it makes things easier with getting to the practice. Also, I found a foster home today for one of the dogs I picked up from another shelter!
Malone: That’s fantastic news.
Sloane: What about you? How was your day? Any interesting cases?
Malone: I had a client who was worried about her dog masturbating on her toys and stuffies.
Sloane: Did you tell her everyone does it?
Malone: Everyone? Including you?
Sloane: Oh, c’mon. As if I don’t.
Malone: Do you? Regularly?
Sloane: Do you?
Malone: This morning, as a ma
tter of fact. And about an hour ago.
Sloane: You’re quite a regular.
Malone: And you? Are you dodging the question, or is this a case of the lady never tells?
Sloane: I don’t believe you asked a question.
Malone: Are you a regular?
Sloane: I am, but my toy of choice is a sleek silver dolphin.
Malone: Now that is a new image I’ll have to bring into the photo album.
Sloane: I’m in your photo album?
Malone: You definitely play a role in my dirty dreams.
Sloane: Same here. Even though I didn’t think of you naked at work. I need you to know that.
Malone: Not once?
Sloane: Fine. It crossed my mind once.
Malone: Only once?
Sloane: Isn’t once enough?
Malone: Oh, sweetheart, once with me will never be enough.
Sloane: Cocky much?
Malone: Just cocky enough.
11
Even top athletes let their focus slide when they’re off the court.
Can’t fault myself for a few late-night text messages.
Fine, more than a few.
About a hundred. But I swear it was just harmless flirting, and it won’t happen again.
Back to boot camp for me.
The next morning I work out at the gym with renewed vigor, I walk to the office with purpose in my stride, and I tackle the day with a sharpened eye.
I’m a fucking top-of-the-line Nikon.
Even though Sloane is in and out of the office, looking delectable as always, I am on point.
I’m an Olympic athlete, I’m a neurosurgeon, I’m an astronaut. Nothing about her distracts me.
Not that freaking pink shirt when it slopes off her shoulder.
Not the sweet vanilla smell of her skin when she reviews some of the foster dogs and their medical needs.
And definitely not the charming, bell-like laugh she emits when she and Sam debate which nearby coffee shop has better beans and cuter baristas.
I’m definitely not at all distracted when she pops into my office at lunchtime and hands me a Vietnamese noodle dish she says she picked up from a shop around the corner. What would distract me about noodles?
Certainly not when she says, “I remember you said Vietnamese had become your favorite cuisine.”
My lips curve into a grin as memories streak by. Late-night walks, and dates, and explorations across the city. Dirty, flirty, naughty, wonderful, deep, and fantastic conversations that stretched late into the night. During that one delicious week, we were all about lingering talks, kisses on moonlit streets, and deliberate anticipation. We took things slow. We did it by choice, wanting to savor what had promised to be the sweetest, most tantalizing courtship. Like the time she told me she loved Vietnamese and I took her out to a restaurant I found, and after I told her it had become a favorite of mine too.
“Do you still like Vietnamese?” she asks.
I stand, walk around my desk, peek out the door. No one’s nearby. She’s inches away from me, and I take a step closer, stopping briefly to dip my face near her ear. “Yes. I very much do.”
She shudders, and I’m a druggie. An addict, jacked up on his hit. One whiff of her sends my brain into overdrive, with wishes and wants crashing into each other.
“I should leave you with your noodles, then,” she says, her voice breathy. Her body is radiating heat waves, and they’re setting my skin on fire.
“Yes. You probably should, but I’m also excellent at sharing.”
Her brown eyes are wide and hungry. “I like Vietnamese food too.”
I gesture to the noodle dish. “We can talk about the no-hump Wednesday. Fitting, no?”
Her enticing lips tip into a grin. “So fitting.”
She sits across from me, and we share a quick meal as we discuss the spay and neuter parade for tomorrow, and this almost feels like something that could have happened seven years ago.
What would have happened if I hadn’t lowered the guillotine on our burgeoning romance?
* * *
The rest of the afternoon, I’m nose to the grindstone, seeing patients until the end of the day. Sam tells me our last appointment canceled.
I check my watch. Ten minutes till closing time. “Want to cut out early?”
She punches the air. “Yes!” Then she rearranges her features. “Just kidding. I want to stay and do extra work all night.” Her smile is sweet and saccharine.
“Get out of here. I know that’s a fib.”
As she and Jonathan pack up to leave, the door bursts open and Sloane rushes in, clutching a tiny, trembling dog with big butterfly ears.
“I pulled him from animal control’s shelter just now,” Sloane says, adrenaline coloring her tone.
“Oh my God, he’s adorable,” Sam coos, racing over to the Papillon mix in Sloane’s arms.
“He’s so sweet too,” Sloane says.
“Why don’t you bring him into exam room one? I’ll make sure he’s okay,” I offer.
“Thank you. The shelter said he was fine, no heartworm, no visible issues. But I’d love for you to check.”
I head into the room, and both women follow with Jonathan close behind.
“It’s a dog party,” Jonathan says, in a singsong voice.
The copper-colored mutt with white paws and the biggest doe eyes I’ve ever seen burrows deeper into Sloane’s chest, tucking his snout underneath her arm.
Sam pets his back. “He’s scared. He must have had a crazy day. How did you spring him?”
“He’s so sweet, but he was sitting in the corner of the kennel just trembling and looking so frightened and pathetic. I couldn’t resist.”
“Who could resist those eyes? Even my mom wouldn’t be able to turn you away,” Sam says, encouraging the little fellow to poke his head out. Soon enough, the pup does, and somehow I manage the task of examining him while Sloane cradles him against her breasts, and my two employees watch.
Yup, this is platinum-level good-boy behavior now. I’m earning my medal tonight.
“What’s his story?” I listen to his heart rate.
“He was living on the street. Picked up by animal control a couple days ago. He only had one night left,” she says, while I check his teeth, “but I know we’re going to find him a great home.” She drops a kiss to his head, and it is one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen. “You’re going to be okay, Mr. Fox. I know you didn’t like living on the street. I’m going to find such a good home for you, and it’s going to be wonderful. You’re going to find a person who loves you. I promise.”
She gives him another kiss.
And fuck my focus.
My heart is thumping hard, and I want to wrap my arms around her, kiss her neck, and tell her the little guy will be okay. “Mr. Fox?”
“Well, he looks like a little red fox,” Jonathan says.
“He totally does,” Sam chimes in, and it’s a damn good thing the two of them are here. If they weren’t, I’d have to call my sister and tell her I was ready to cave in two days.
I’m such a sucker for a woman who’s good with animals.
“Do you have a foster home for him yet?” I ask.
Sloane shakes her head. “No. I’m going to keep him with me tonight.”
My heart softens even more. “Let me send you home with some food for him. And I’ll call you a cab.”
She snuggles him closer. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
A few minutes later, I put her, some cans of food, and Mr. Fox in a cab, wishing I was going with them too.
12
The next day is no-hump Wednesday, and the surgery lineup calls for a steady stream of snippety snip snips, both for patients and fosters.
I make my way through the alterations with sharp intensity, moving methodically and precisely through each one. Over lunch, my partner and I grab a quick bite at a nearby burger joint, discussing some of the more unusual ongoing cases I’ve been tr
eating.
He’s aces when it comes to obscure and off-the-beaten-path maladies. We tackle a case of a poodle with some vision issues, and Doug suggests a treatment he heard about at the last conference he attended. When the meal is done, he taps his temple. “See? I’ve still got it going on.”
“You absolutely do. There’s no one better.”
We return to the office, and when he pushes open the door, he says offhand, “But someday soon, I’d like to retire. I have visions of playing golf and enjoying some salsa dancing with my favorite wife. Hell, maybe Sloane can give me grandchildren so I can enjoy them between tropical vacations.”
I cough so loudly and virulently, it turns into a bark.
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