Page 49 of Vetted for Vengeance
I lead him to my Land-Rover and climb in. As the engine roars to life, I nearly break the no talking about dogs rule by reminding him… twice.
He’s quiet beside me, hands folded in his lap as if he’s afraid to touch anything.
Not relaxed. Not yet.
That’s good.
It will make our destination much more impressive.
It isn't far into town, where I've booked a last-minute table at the Flash d’oeuvre. I rarely come here, but it's sparkly and that will be perfect to distract Noah from his puppies. I bite backwords of reassurance about them. My staff are working around the clock to manage what he handled alone. But it's easier to work hard when there are cute puppies involved. Everyone loves being overrun with cute puppies. It's a universal quality in animal care that even I can't completely deny.
“This place is… wow.” Noah gasps as he climbs out of the car and stares up at the restaurant.
I watch him take it in; the lights, the glass, the quiet wealth, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
This isn’t his world.
Then again… neither am I.
“The inside is pretty good too,” I urge, spurring his legs in the right direction.
We sat at a central table. Not my usual style of sitting in the corner so I can watch everyone better than they can watch me. No, this table is a statement I didn't want to make. This isn’t a casual dinner table.
This is a date table. This is a date.
Not a reward or a kindness. A decision.
One I don’t remember making… but here we are, anyway.
And we’ve been recognized.
A few nearby tables have started whispering softly.
“They're all looking,” Noah whispers, hiding behind his menu. “The amazing Dr Rhys Calder on a dinner not-date with a mysterious stranger.”
“Mysterious stranger? You mean the infamous dog boy.”
“Dog boy? Makes me sound like a stray.”
“Grubby tramp stumbles into prestigious veterinary practice and blows whistle on dog cruelty.”
“I was the one running the dog cruelty,” he croaks. “They must all hate me.”
“You've stopped watching Follow the Vet.”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“You should…” My recommendation to follow his story on TV comes to an abrupt halt as a server leans in conspiratorially close and whispers.
“I'm sorry to bother you, but we've had several customers question whether it would be appropriate to ask for autographs.”
“As long as they respect our privacy while we're eating, I have no objections. You?” I double check with Noah, who gives a nervous agreement while flushing a little pink.
“Thank you, sirs.”
Less than five minutes later, a couple walked over arm in arm. “I'm so sorry, but seeing you here is just a dream come true.” The woman gushes. “We don't have anything better than a serviette, but could you sign it, please? If you don't mind.”
“I can go one better.” I pull out a photo card from my jacket and sign it for them.
