Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
ELSIE
I nudge open the door to the animal observation ward, mentally bracing myself for a repeat of this morning’s tragic piglet opera.
Instead, I get… nasally snoring. Beans is flat on his side, deeply, gloriously asleep, his little piggy legs twitching.
Is he… dream-galloping? I log his vitals—normal, again.
Temperature? Normal. I’m pretty sure the little stinker pulled a fast one this morning.
I roll my eyes and head back to my office to wait until Beans’ smoking hot owner comes back. I’m in so much trouble here.
I’m not even pretending I’m supposed to get work done with Beckett’s handsome face haunting my brain. His muscular arms. His killer shoulders. That look he gave me like he was two seconds away from bending me over the exam table and making me forget my own freaking name.
I jam my elbows on my desk and tuck my face in my hands, groaning like a lovesick sixteen-year-old.
Jesus. I just spent twenty minutes thinking about the hottie instead of writing up Beans’ chart.
I’m a disaster today. Every time the phone rings, my heart leaps straight into my throat like a caffeinated squirrel.
Hanna peeks her head in, grinning like she knows every dirty thought in my head.
“It’s Mr. Hot again,” she whispers, voice full of pure evil glee.
The fact that she calls him Mr. Hot isn’t helping.
Nope, not happening. Not picking up. If I hear his voice, my brain will fully melt down, and I’ll probably end up charting nonsense while fantasizing about how yummy he smells—like cedar and danger and very bad ideas.
So, I make Hanna field every call like the world’s biggest coward. My willpower is already on life support. If I hear that deep, gruff voice, I’ll probably forget how to spell my own name.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. I make it through two puppy vaccinations and a surgery consult without accidentally calling anyone “Daddy,” which is a major win.
But every time I close my eyes, all I can see is that impossible green stare, those huge hands, and the way his voice got rough when he asked about visiting Beans.
The man has a voice like bourbon and velvet, all sharp edges and slow burn heat.
I’m pretty sure if he ever said my name in that gravelly “you’re-mine-now” tone, I’d melt straight through the floor.
I try to focus on my charting. I really do.
There’s a whole stack of paperwork and four urgent emails waiting for me, and I swear I’m going to get through at least one before my brain short-circuits.
But then I remember the way Beckett Hot’s huge hands flexed as he gently petted Pork.
The way he smiled when he talked about his ridiculous pets.
Not that I noticed how his biceps strained against his shirt or anything. Nope. Not at all.
By the time five o’clock rolls around, I’ve given up all hope of accomplishing anything useful, so I do the only logical thing. I open my phone and stalk Beckett Hot’s social media like a total psycho.
Holy cow. He’s even hotter in real life, but the pictures?
Fudge me. Shirtless in the river with his dog and pig, wet hair slicked back, glowering at the camera.
In his uniform, all broad shoulders and bossy command.
There’s one in a suit at a wedding, and I almost swallow my tongue.
I want to lick every inch of that man. I want those hands all over me, pinning me to any surface he wants.
I want him to growl my name and ruin me.
I bite my lower lip and try not to moan out loud in my office. Jesus Christ, Elsie, get a grip.
But it’s useless. I’m a wreck, and it’s all his fault.
Hanna, my tech, sticks her head in the door, interrupting my inappropriate thoughts. “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Adorable is here.”
“Don’t even go there,” I grumble and follow her out to the first exam room.
I grit my teeth and try not to trip over my own feet on the way down the hall because my brain is screaming that Beckett Hot is about to be within arm’s reach and my body is ready to humiliate me in a new and spectacular fashion.
Maybe I’ll just spontaneously combust. Save us all the trouble.
Hanna gives me a knowing look as she pushes open the exam room door. “Try not to drool,” she whispers, just low enough that only I can hear her. Rude. But also, kind of warranted.
Because… WOW.
He’s already inside, larger than life, leaning one hip against the counter like he owns the place.
His uniform shirt is gone, replaced by a Henley that’s so criminally fitted it should be illegal.
Those arms are just as gigantic as I remember.
And now I can see a sliver of a tattoo peeking out from beneath his sleeve.
My ovaries throw confetti. Holy mother of all things sinful, that isn’t just a tattoo.
That is a freaking invitation to lick him from wrist to shoulder and maybe all the way up his neck.
I’m staring. I know I’m staring. I can’t help myself.
His eyes catch mine, and the temperature in the room jumps about twenty degrees. Green. So sharp and focused, I almost drop the iPad in my hands.
“Is Beans okay?” Beckett’s voice hits me like a body blow. Low. Lethal. A little rough, like he just got out of a fight—or maybe straight out of my dirtiest fantasy.
“Yep.” I clear my throat and try not to pant. “He’s doing great. Already tried to con two different techs out of snacks.”
He grunts, but his mouth ticks up at the corner. I want to bite that mouth. Hard. I want to crawl into his lap and see what happens when those giant hands get tired of being gentle.
“Come with me and we’ll go find Beans.” My voice is way too breathless. I sound like I just ran a marathon or had a dirty dream about him. Oops. My bad.
He locks his eyes on me, and holy cow, my knees actually go weak.
“Lead the way.” There’s a rough edge to his voice that does all kinds of filthy things to my insides.
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.
Mr. Snugglebutt is already perched on the kitchen counter, his massive orange body sprawled across my mail, one paw deliberately knocking my favorite mug dangerously close to the edge.
His amber eyes narrow to slits as he glowers at me, tail twitching with the slow, methodical rhythm of a predator contemplating his next move.
I barely get my keys on the hook before he lets out a yowl that starts as a low rumble and crescendos into a sound that could wake the dead three zip codes over.
“Sorry, sorry, I know I'm late," I mutter, grabbing his chipped blue ceramic bowl with the faded fish painted around the rim.
The wet food plops from the can with that distinctive squelching sound, and the pungent smell of "Seafood Medley" hits my nostrils.
Mr. Snugglebutt gives me an unimpressed sniff, his whiskers twitching in judgment, then lunges forward and starts eating before I've even set the bowl down, his rough pink tongue darting out between sharp teeth.
Honestly, the cat is even more spoiled than Beckett’s unusual pets. If Beckett Hot ever saw the way I baby-talk this fluffball, he’d probably run for the hills.
While Mr. Snugglebutt eats, I change my clothes, fluff my hair, and take one last look in the mirror. Showtime.