Page 28 of Vetted for Vengeance
It's hard to stay out of his way, but I'm determined to try. Watching his routine over the next few days will help; I can keep his structure without getting under his feet.
But right now I am burning up with questions. They sit under my skin, restless.
If I don’t ask them, I’ll start guessing.
And guessing around someone like Rhys feels dangerous.
“Do you think I'd make a good nurse?” The question comes out lighter than it feels.
It's not about his secret life, they'll have to wait, but it's a start.
“Yes,” he replies clearly, without moving his mug from where he is holding it in front of his mouth. “I don’t think any of my nurses could manage so many dogs in the kennels and still know what’s going on. You'd make a good kennel manager.”
The words land deeper than they should. No hesitation. No politeness. Just fact.
“I would love that.” I would be good at that. That thought feels new. Dangerous in a completely different way.
“I'm going to request planning permission for another kennel block behind the surgery. We could convert the old barn.”
“Uh, sure. Do you need more kennels?”
“We have kennels for post-op recovery and short-term observation, but we need a proper long-term care wing. I just couldn't picture any of my nurses running it.”
“Well, I know all about running it, but nothing about the care needed…” I give up talking as Rhys turns all his attention to his phone. He's doing it right now. Switching off.
Pulling away. Like the conversation never happened.
The room falls into silence. The mug he had been nursing is forgotten. And I have a feeling my life is becoming more entwined with his. Whether he wants it to or not.
“You look bored,” he observes bluntly. Not unkind. Just… efficient. “Go into my office and get the papers from the second drawer on the left.”
“Okay.” But being ordered around doesn't feel bad; it feels useful. I feel useful. That feeling is addictive. I could get used to this.
Being needed. Being told where to go, what to do, and how to help. Knowing I have a place.
So I trot off obediently to the office and look for drawers on the left.
There are no drawers on the left side of the room, so I try the left side of the desk. Of course he meant the desk.
He always means exactly what he says. I just have to learn how to hear it properly.
The second drawer is full of manila folders, all with weird codes on the spines. For a moment, my heart jumps, imagining grid co-ordinates for his bodies.
Latitude and longitude. Burial maps. Evidence he hasn’t burned.
But a quick peek inside the top folder kills that idea. It's too normal. Almost disappointing.
I gather them up in a messy armful and return to the only man who can understand them.
“There.” I carefully place the entire pile on the coffee table. He nudges the pile into a perfect line with the edge of the coffee table.
“Find B84FK.” He barely looks up from his phone, but I relish being useful and hunt through the stack for the right folder.
“What are the barn's measurements?” he continues as I find the folder and open it.
I quickly flick through architectural drawings of a barn until I find one with measurements on it.
“60 by 40,” I read. “I guess that's in feet?”
