“So, do you want me to neuter him?” she asks, snatching another cookie from the packet.
I know she’s not talking about the cat, so I appear to consider it for a beat. “Would I have to help? Because I don’t ever want to see those testicles again.”
“Fair,” she says, then crams the cookie into her mouth.
“I thought I might just overdose him on ketamine.”
Yara coughs, laughs, and then begins to choke. “Whatever works,” she croaks. “What’s discussed in the break room stays in the break room.”
“Except for the crumbs.” Leaning over, I brush the remains from her face.
“And the drugs we steal to off a certain someone.”
Twenty minutes later, I pull on the hoodie I’d raided from Riley’s closet this morning and step out into the rainy afternoon.
“Give me a break,” I mutter, my brows lowering as I notice the shiny Bentley in the parking lot. I forcibly ignore the way my stomach flips. Those swanky wheels are probably just a coincidence.
The clinic is in Knightsbridge, which is a pretty tony area of London. We deal with a lot of pet advocates (notowners, because the term was judged demeaning to pets last year. Pets are people too ... even though they’re not) worried about Fido’s gluten intake or inquiring if we offer cat Reiki. We see a lot of poodles in Gucci sweaters and fluffy cats in bejeweled neckwear, so the lot is no stranger to fancy vehicles.
So why am I squinting through the rain while fluffing my ponytail?Because you don’t want to look like shit when you see him againshould not be the answer, but it’s the one my brain offers.
Oliver Deubel makes me feel ... hot and bothered. Antsy and annoyed. I’d say he’s the human equivalent of stinging nettles but for the flicker ofyes, please!that starts up whenever I think of him. Even after his threats.Well, I’m not going to let him cause problems for me. My visa can’t be that hard to fix.My stomach roils as I mentally push away the results of my earlier Google fest. It’s just a temporary problem. It has to be.Same goes for my fascination with him.
Meanwhile, it looks like this rain is here to stay. I sigh, wondering if I should leave Nora’s for another day. It’s not like she’s expecting me. I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon.
Nora is kicking eighty, and her cell phone is a brick. I doubt it has that ancient snake game, never mind access to the web. Even if she had the internet at her little animal sanctuary, she wouldn’t ask questions. She has zero interest in any creature that wasn’t born to walk on four legs.
“It’s bloody chucking it down!”
I turn to the sound of the door opening behind me and of Ida, the practice manager’s voice.
“Yep, good old British summertime.”
Top tip: when seeking safe conversation in London, always opt for the weather.
“Better the rain than honeymooning with that waste of space.”
So much forsafe.
“I hope he gets crotch rot and his todger falls off.” Ida gives a decisive nod, and I find myself laughing unexpectedly.And tearing up, unfortunately.“Anyway, I meant to give you these,” she says, passing a bunch of colorful sticky notes into my hand. “Messages that came in for you today.” She presses one age-weathered finger to the bridge of her glasses, prodding them higher on her nose. “Said they were journalists, all but one of them.” She adds a distaining sniff. “That call was from someone called Lori complaining about a bad smell hanging around the front of the house.”
“What?” Why would she . . .
“It was the waste-of-space shit bag,” Ida adds.
A heavy brick sinks to the pit of my stomach.Where did Mitch get Riley’s address?
“It’s only a question of time before he turns up here. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” I thought, well, I thought he might not bother, given I’m supposed to be on vacation.With him.
“If you want to keep management off your back, I say you take your holidays.”
I guess that’s Ida speak for “they wouldn’t appreciate a scene.”
“Anyway, I neither confirmed nor denied you worked here,” she summarizes, pulling the sides of her chunky cardigan tighter across her small frame. “Data protection, so I said. Then I told them to push off and get a proper job.”
I shove the sticky notes into the pocket of Riley’s hoodie. “Thanks, Ida.”
