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CHAPTER FOUR

ELSIE

I jolt awake to my phone alarm blaring at nuclear blast levels. But before I can even fumble for snooze, something heavy and furry is planted across my face, blocking out the world and ninety percent of my oxygen. Mr. Snugglebutt is trying to assassinate me.

“Gmph,” I croak, kicking my feet like a dying starfish. The fuzzball above me does not budge. His body is pure deadweight, pinning me like a weighted mask. It takes a superhuman effort to peel Mr. Snugglebutt off my face without losing my nose to one of his vengeful paw swipes.

He hits the sheets with a thud, eyes narrowed to hate-slits. The message is clear: How dare you interfere with my beauty sleep, human.

I flop back onto my pillow and just… lie there. For a moment, the only thing I can do is stare at the ceiling and try to remind my lungs how breathing works.

God, I’m tired. Not just “it’s another early morning” tired. Oh no. This is bones-melting, me-versus-gravity, “did someone run me over with a delivery truck” kind of tired. But my brain isn’t interested in sleep. Memories of Beckett’s mouth on mine and his strong, muscular body wrapped around mine, the rough catch of his palm against my cheek, the way his voice turned my insides to pudding when he asked me on a real, honest-to-goodness date all ran through my thoughts on a constant loop all night long.

And the dream I was having before the cat attack? All Beckett. All stubble and muscle and—oh, holy hell, I can’t even look at my own ceiling without blushing.

My inner goddess is running victory laps while the rest of me weighs the pros and cons of calling in dead. I’m tempted. Very tempted.

But Snugglebutt lets out another yowl, springing onto the edge of the pillow and shooting me an amber-eyed death glare. “All right, all right, I get it. You’re starving. It’s been a whole seven hours since your last meal. How do you survive such deprivation?”

I roll out of bed with the grace of a wounded walrus and immediately stub my toe on the laundry basket. Ow. Beautiful. Maybe I can just crawl through the rest of the day.

Mr. Snugglebutt weaves between my legs, tail flagging like a warning sign. “Okay, mister. You win.” I scoop him up and cradle him like a disgruntled baby, scratching behind his ears while he pretends to hate it. He tolerates it for exactly three seconds before pushing off my chest, claws extended for extra traction. I rush into the kitchen and feed the little tyrant before heading back to my room.

A hot shower is my only hope. Maybe it’ll deliver the illusion of being a functioning adult.

The steaming water hits my shoulders, and I groan. That’s the stuff. I just stand there and let the aches ease out of my muscles, forehead pressed to the wall. The heat wakes up all the parts of my brain that were refusing to wake up. My dreams get blurry around the edges, but Beckett’s hands still linger in my memory, warm and firm, like he’s about to pin me to the tile and… Darn it. Not the time, hormones. Not the time.

When my fingers look like prunes, I finally manage to drag myself out. I wrap up in a towel, do a quick de-frizz session with my hair dryer, and start hunting for some clean scrubs in my closet.

After quickly dressing, I head to the kitchen for coffee and find Mr. Snugglebutt perched on the corner of the counter, tail flicking with pure malice, staring at his empty food bowl like a Dickensian orphan.

“You already ate all that?” I mutter. He meows, long and tragic, like I’ve personally ruined his will to live. I don’t have the energy to fight him, so I open another can of premium seafood mush and dish it out, trying to ignore the way he circles my ankles with the intensity of a piranha. The smell? Death and low tide. “There you go, tiger.” He immediately buries his face in the bowl. The lord has been appeased.

Next up for me is coffee. I need all I can get of the black gold. I fire up the Keurig and slap together a travel mug with a squirt or two of caramel creamer. The only breakfast I can find is a granola bar. Fancy.

I chug half the coffee while reviewing the calendar on my phone. Two surgeries today, back-to-back, plus consults and a sprinkling of vaccine appointments. My blood sugar crashes just reading the schedule, and it’s not even six-thirty a.m.

On my way out, I double-check Mr. Snugglebutt’s water bowl and open a brand-new Fluffy Toy Mouse to distract my spoiled feline companion.

The parking lot is dark, and I check my surroundings as I walk to my dirt-dusted Civic—a habit I learned living in the big city. The sky is that weird pre-dawn blue, half-light, like the sun can’t make up its mind. It only takes me three minutes to drive to work.

I park behind the clinic and take a deep breath, trying to talk myself into acting like a normal human instead of a barely reanimated corpse. My hair is doing that frizzy-mop thing it loves so much. There’s an actual coffee stain on the front of my scrubs.

Honestly, I’m crushing it.

Inside, the lights are already on. Hanna’s the only other one here at this ungodly hour, and I find her in the break room, working on a protein bar and scrolling on her phone.

“Rough night?” She smirks, eyeing the bags under my eyes.

“You have no idea,” I groan, throwing my purse in a cubby and slouching on the nearest chair. “Snugglebutt tried to suffocate me in my sleep.”

Hanna actually snorts, protein bar paused midair. “That’s what you get for letting a beast like that share your bed.” Her eyes flick to my coffee-stained scrubs, and she cackles. “You look like absolute hell.”

“Oh, trust me, I feel worse.” I hunch over my travel mug and inhale toxic levels of caffeine. My brain is still melting down over last night. Every time I blink, I see Beckett’s lips on mine, his muscular body pressed against me, the way his hand pinning me to the wall made me want to come on the spot. Jesus. Hormones, chill.

I focus on the list for today, but my brain’s still in Beckett-land. I’m supposed to be prepping for a spay surgery, but every time I look down at my hands, I’m thinking about last night. The way he crowded me up against the door and kissed me like it was the last night on earth. My entire body goes hot and melty again just remembering it. Freaking hell. I am never going to make it through this day if I keep replaying last night on a mental highlight reel. I clench my jaw and grab the chart off the top of my stack, shoving every dirty Beckett fantasy into a locked box somewhere behind my eyeballs. I’m a professional. I’m a doctor with a waiting room full of patients and a calendar so packed it should come with a warning label.

Focus, Elsie. I march down the hall, ignoring the way my traitorous hormones are still throbbing with every step. There’s a senior citizen poodle out front who probably needs to get through her dental cleaning without me drooling about Beckett’s monster biceps. I paste on my best “normal human” face and let my autopilot training take over.