Lahat ng Kabanata ng After Hours Service: Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 30

Antonio's expression underwent a rapid, fascinating transformation. Relief first, then vindication, then the particular smugness of a man who has been told he's overreacting and has just been proven correct. "I told you." "You told me he was limping. You did not tell me he had a thorn. You didn't even know he had spaces between his pads." "But I was right that something was wrong." I couldn't argue with that. The thorn was real, the limp had been real, and Antonio's concern had been legitimate. This was deeply inconvenient for my running theory that every veterinary question he'd asked over the past week had been a transparent excuse to talk to me. Rico licked my chin, his tongue warm and slightly rough, his tail creating a breeze that ruffled my hair. I scratched behind his ears and looked up to find Antonio watching me with an expression I couldn't quite categorize. "Thank you," he said. "For coming." "He's a good dog." "He is." Antonio crouched beside Rico, his movements st

Antonio looked deeply offended. "I did not cry.""He cried extensively. There were tears. Sobbing. I honestly felt bad for him.""I was bleeding. There was no crying.""Memory is subjective," I said, reaching for the wine Sofia had poured. "I recall screaming. Very dramatic. Like a Victorian widow.""The fuck I did—"Sofia's leaned over the table, and her hand connected with Antonio's upper arm with a sound like a textbook being dropped on a desk. "Language."Antonio closed his eyes. "Sorry, Mamma."I laughed so hard wine came out my nose, which was not the sophisticated impression I'd been hoping to make. Gino was trying to smother his laughter in his bread. Carlo had given up entirely and was openly cackling. Even the unnamed men at the far end of the table were grinning."He screamed like a Victorian widow," I repeated, tears running down my face. "I have the notes.""You don't have notes.""My medical records are very detailed."Sofia smiled at me with the warmth of a woman who ha

I picked up the forceps and began lifting the first suture. The work was delicate—each knot required precision, the blade sliding under the thread, a clean snip, a gentle pull. I worked in silence for thirty seconds, aware of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his arm stayed perfectly motionless under my fingers. "You're staring at my hands," I said, cutting the second stitch. "I'm staring at you." "Behave." The word landed differently than I'd intended. I felt the shift in him—a subtle tension, the kind that wasn't pain—before I registered that I'd said behave to a man whose entire existence was built on command and control, and he'd liked hearing it. "Take your time," he said, his voice lower than before. "I'm not in a hurry." "I'm aware. You're sitting very still for someone who refused local anesthetic." "I told you. I don't like needles." "You had a bullet extracted without anesthesia. You don't get to claim needle aversion." "You have very steady han

The sixth outfit hit the floor with the same contemptuous flutter as the five before it. I stood in my underwear and a single mismatched sock, hands on my hips, glaring at the bedspread that had become a fabric graveyard. Pickles sat on the pillow — my only pillow, the one he'd claimed during my first week in this apartment and never relinquished — watching me with the flat, unblinking stare of a creature who had never once worried about what to wear."You're right," I told him. "This is pathetic."Pickles' tail flicked once. Not in agreement. In the particular feline gesture that meant I'm tolerating your nonsense because my food bowl is full and I'm too comfortable to move."I'm a thirty-two-year-old veterinarian. I have extracted bullets from living men at three in the morning. I once sedated a hundred-and-twenty-pound Mastiff that was actively trying to kill me." I snatched the green dress off the hanger for the second time. "I can handle a dinner date."Pickles yawned. His teeth

We talked. It was more than flirtation, though that ran beneath everything like a current. More than anything, it was relaxed, actual conversation. Antonio described mandatory family dinners, the kind where absence was not an option and punctuality was measured to the minute. Sofia, ran the table the way a general ran a campaign."Mamma's still mad at me about the background check," he admitted."As she should be. You overstepped." I swirled wine in my glass, kept my tone casual. "What did the background check find, anyway?""Nothing. You're clean. Annoyingly clean." He paused. "She found that suspicious.""Your mother thinks I'm suspicious because I don't have a criminal record.""My mother thinks everyone is suspicious. It's a hobby. She adores you, though."He told me about being fourteen, caught smoking behind the church by his aunt Teresa, who dragged him home by his ear through three blocks of sidewalk while neighbors watched. He described it with the specific, wry resignation o