No Perfect Hero(41)
I’d never have known this was the vet’s office, tucked away between a deli and an abandoned shoe shop with the windows boarded up.
There’s no sign over the door. No decals on the windows. No emergency drop-off marker.
But the instant we step inside, I’m hit with that warm smell of fur that always seems to permeate vet offices, and the sound of various pets barking and mewling and cawing in the back room.
There’s only one other person in the waiting room, a reedy older blonde woman with a golden retriever resting with his head on his paws and the cone of shame around his neck.
She’s texting one-handed, her other hand wrapped around the retriever’s leash. She glances up and offers a sympathetic smile as we come bursting in like a tangled cannonball of human and cat, with Tara practically clinging to Warren’s leg, never taking her eyes off Mozart.
The receptionist starts to lift her head with a chirpy greeting stuck on her lips. She never gets the chance to speak when Warren, without looking up from the cat he’s coddling, belts out, “Doc! Get your ass out here.”
“I see someone’s forgotten the chain of command yet again.” A dry, cool, smoky masculine voice drifts from the back.
A second later that voice's owner emerges, a tall man with an elegance that seems out of place somewhere as earthy as Heart’s Edge. Dark haired, oddly chiseled, sharp and straight as a scalpel in his lab coat.
Adjusting his glasses, green eyes glinting, “Doc” leans over the counter, peering at Mozart, before sighing and thinning his lips. “Again, Warren? This cat must be on the thirtieth of his nine lives by now. Let's bring him back, let me get a better look at him.”
Warren starts to step around the counter – only to stop and look down at Tara, who’s on him like a burr.
“Hey,” he says softly, bending down toward her. “Give Mozart a kiss for luck.”
Tara nods solemnly, then leans in and presses her lips to Mozart’s fuzzy little forehead. The cat looks entirely annoyed, while Warren’s gentle smile is warmly approving as he nods to my niece. “There we go. Now we know he’ll be fine.”
Then he straightens, looking at me, and I realize I’ve been staring at him too long.
Just gawking in flipping awe, trying to figure out who the heck I'm seeing and why he looks so much like Warren Ford, Super Asshole.
My legs won't move. They're petrified in the middle of the room, caught between fear for the cat and this bizarrely tight, warm, wonderful feeling in my chest watching this 'other' Warren.
How gently he handles the cat.
How gently he handles my niece, and that sweet way he smiled for her.
And how he gives me that same smile, stealing my breath, as he nods firmly. His thick dark hair is still a boyishly bed-rumpled mess, falling into those devastatingly blue eyes and shadowing them until it’s like someone cut two pieces of the night from the sky.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “Doc’s the best in the state, even if he's...an odd bird. He’ll get Mozart on his feet in no time. Sit tight.”
“Right,” I murmur, still dazedly. “Thanks.”
Then I shake myself, reaching for Tara’s hand. “C’mon, baby. Let’s wait for the doctor to take care of Mozart. Sounds like he’s used to it.”
“You have no damn idea,” Doc retorts dryly – but for all his personality quirks, his hands are gentle as he nudges under Mozart’s jaw. “This little beast and I have a special relationship.”
Tara giggles as Doc looks up and flashes her a quick wink.
That makes me feel better as I watch the two men disappear into the back with the cat.
It seems to soothe Tara, too. But of course it doesn’t stop her from climbing into my lap.
The little lady’s only ten whole years old when she wants to assert her independence, but when she needs comfort and reassurance, suddenly she’s every bit a little girl again, clinging to me and burying her face in my chest.
I hold her close, stroking my hands over her back, calming us both.
It’s silly to get attached to a cat in just a few days, but how can I blame her? He’s kind of turned into my morning wake-up call every time he bounces on the windowsill and starts yowling to be let in and fed the scraps from a brunch I haven’t even made yet.
Honestly, he’s a bit of a nuisance, but he’s become our nuisance.
Not unlike the asshole next door.
God.
I'm so not falling for that jerk.
Especially not because he was nice to a cat and a kid.
That’s the oldest trick in the book. Me and Warren Ford?
Never, ever happening.
*
The wait feels eternal.
And when Warren finally emerges alone, his face black and stormy with fury, my gut somersaults with dread of the worst kind.
Tara jerks in my lap, looking up at him, then whimpers, flinching and ducking her head, peering at him with wide, apprehension-filled eyes.
“Warren?” I ask tentatively as he stalks across the waiting room toward us. “What happened? Is...is Mozart okay?”
He stops in his tracks, blinking as if he's not quite sure what words mean, before sighing and dropping his heavy bulk down into the chair next to us. He's all powerful, compact muscle as he leans forward, draping his elbows over his knees.