Page 35 of Vetted for Vengeance
And then I step back.
“Thank you for letting me hold your tape measure,” he mutters.
When he says it like that, with his cheeks flushed pink, I realize how that could have been taken.
“I'll let you return to your puppies.”
He's made himself indispensable there; no one else can tell the tiny pups apart to check them against his records from the farm.
My surgeries are booked solid for the next few weeks after a court order approved neutering the farm bitches that aren't pregnant, and the two breeding males. They all have to beneutered and vaccinated before rehousing, paid for by the council. A convenient windfall for the practice that can fund my new hospital wing.
But watching Noah amble out of my barn, I know this is already worth all the disruption.
My gaze drops to the brick in the absolute dead center of the barn.
It was never about the measuring.
It was about obedience. And he didn’t even realize he was giving it.
Noah did everything I asked of him, and it was all hidden within the vision I was explaining. The fact that he responded to each prompt meant that he was listening. He wasn’t humoring me.
He was engaged.
“You planning on living out here now?”
I glance up from the brick to find Danielle leaning in the open barn doorway, arms folded across her chest. She’s been here eight years, since she qualified, back when it was just me and her, struggling to keep up with demand. That was before we were selected to host the TV show. Before we grew so much, I needed to employ three more vets just to keep up with demand.
She takes a few steps inside, her boots crunching softly on the dusty concrete.
“Tree said you disappeared with a tape measure and the puppy whisperer.”
“Puppy whisperer? Did you come up with that, or was it the producer's idea?”
“You know that boy has turned your entire practice upside down in about forty-eight hours?”
“The dogs did that,” I reply calmly.
“No. The dogs filled the kennels. The boy rearranged your life.”
“The producer wants him to stay, Stan is a little besotted with him…”
“It's not Stan. You're the one who is smitten.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Irritating.
I can't deny the comment, but I also can't rationalize the decision against my veterinary persona. This connection was born from the depths of my home, the depths of my cold, calculating soul.
“You’re building a hospital wing, taking on a trainee you met yesterday, and signing up for another television series.”
“We need the capacity.” I can defend that accusation professionally.
Danielle raises an eyebrow. “Do we?”
“Yes. For the dogs…”
“And when they're gone?” She doesn't give me time to answer. “You’ll fill it with strays and wildlife because it will give that boy a reason to stay after all the puppies are rehomed.”
“It's good business.”
