AllFreeNovel
Share Us
That’s enough. I feel the wicked smile come over my face.
I skip a line and say one more thing.
Should I go on?
And hit send.
Oh my God. I’m going to hell.
Chapter 12
DREW
For the first hour after the accidental email, I can’t even leave the office. I pace the room with Sasha in my pocket.
Right. Sasha. I named the cat after her mother. I already see that lie coming back to bite me in the ass.
I consider ways I might retrieve this message before Ensley gets it. But only comedy scenarios run through my head. Break into her house. Steal her phone. Hire a hacker.
But Ensley may have read it instantly. That’s the beauty of emails. They are immediate.
Should I send a follow-up email? Apologize?
These mistakes don’t happen to me. I’m in control of my life. I’m the boss.
What came over me? Why had I even typed those words?
Sasha stirs in my pocket, and I pet her head. “I’m calling you Snowball from now on.”
I sit at my desk, trying to come up with a proper message to Ensley. What if she forwards it to Franklin? Or the board of ethics for veterinary medicine?
No. She won’t do that.
It’s very simple. I’ll compose an email with a clear apology. Let her know that it won’t happen again.
Then I will delete her from my contacts forever.
Sasha—Snowball—emits a loud meow. I try to concentrate, hands over the keyboard, gathering my thoughts.
But the mewing is incessant.
I pull her out of my pocket and set her on the desk. “Are you hungry? Do you need the litter box?”
Snowball sits primly, her tail curling around her body. She watches me solemnly, like she’s trying to figure me out. She looks so small on the vast desk. It’s hard to imagine that she’s caused this huge debacle for me.
No. The blame for that is solely on me. I didn’t have to write that message.
Meow.
Something’s up with her. I will have to compose this at home. I shut down the machine.
“Okay, come on.” I tuck Sasha, dang it,Snowball, in my pocket and head to the treatment space. I set her in her corner with her litter box and food dish and check on the dog whose leg we set.
He’s quietly sleeping.
I walk the clinic, making sure the lights are out and everything is locked. When I return, Snowball waits by her now empty food dish.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
