Читать книгу: «The Puppy Proposal»

Chapter Two

Nic carried the dog into the small, spotlessly clean room, gently lowering him onto the slick exam table. Immediately the troublemaker tried to jump off into Jillian’s arms. “Oh, no you don’t. Stay,” he said, grabbing the squirming dog before he could take flight.

“Good reflexes,” she commented, smiling that pretty smile again.

“Years of wrestling with my younger brother,” he answered. “You said you might need to call the vet. I thought you were the vet.” Confused, he pointedly looked at her scrubs. Scrubs that did nothing to hide her feminine curves.

“Me? No, I’m the veterinary technician, Jillian Everett,” she corrected. “Cassie—I mean, Dr. Marshall—already left. But let me take a look, and then I’ll give her a call if there’s anything wrong.” She opened a drawer below the gleaming examining table and removed a small scanning device. “But first, let’s see who this furry guy is. I’m pretty positive it’s Murphy, Mrs. Rosenberg’s border collie, but a microchip would tell us for sure. Hopefully we’ll luck out, and the scanner will be able to find one.”

Upon hearing his name, the dog whimpered, wriggling in delight.

“I think you just got your answer as to who he is. And speaking of names, I’m Nic.”

“You’re probably right, Nic, but let’s do this by the book, just in case.” She held down a button and ran the scanner up and down the dog’s neck, stroking his black-and-white fur with her other hand. Her affection for the dog was obvious. When the machine beeped, she wrote down a number that had popped up on the screen. “I’ve got Murphy’s chip number recorded in his file. Let me get it and I’ll be right back.”

Left alone with the dog, Nic found himself hoping the veterinary tech would come back soon. He liked her smile, and the way her dark curls kept falling across her face. Liked the gentle way she stroked the dog without seeming to notice she was doing it. He wondered if those hands felt as soft as they looked. But mostly, he liked that she was focused on the dog, not him. Fawning women had become a huge turnoff.

“It’s definitely Murphy,” she said, striding back into the room. Murphy squirmed in glee, as if happy to be recognized. “All right, boy, I know you’re happy to see me. I’m happy to see you, too. But I’ve got to make sure you’re not hurt, okay, handsome?” She ran her hands along the dog’s back and along his sides, feeling through the thick coat. “Murphy’s a favorite of mine, smarter than most dogs, but as likely to get into trouble as his name implies.”

“His name?” Nic looked down at the dog in his arms, confused.

“Murphy. As in Murphy’s Law?” She picked up the front leg and continued to check him over for any obvious open wounds or signs of pain.

“Ah, I take it this isn’t his first misadventure, then?” Nic could relate to that. He’d had his own stretch of mishaps growing up.

“Oh, no, Murphy makes trouble his hobby. It’s really not his fault—he’s just a smart, active dog without enough to keep him busy. Border collies are herding dogs—they need a job to do, some way to channel their energy. Mrs. Rosenberg is very nice, but she’s in her seventies and just not up to giving him the kind of exercise and training he needs. So our boy here finds his own exercise. He’s broken out of her apartment a few times before, but I’ve never known him to make it all the way over the bridge. That’s quite a hike, even for an athletic dog like Murphy.”

Annoyed by the owner’s lack of forethought, he asked, “If she can’t keep up with him, why did she get him in the first place?” His whole life was nothing but responsibilities; the idea of someone being so irresponsible, even with a pet, rankled him.

“She didn’t, not exactly. Her son, who wouldn’t know a collie from a cockatiel, gave him to her for a present. Said a dog would keep her company. As if she needed company—she’s a member of every committee and social group in town. She tried to talk me into taking him, but my apartment building doesn’t allow dogs.” She paused, bent down to look at something more closely and then frowned. “Nic, can you hold him on his side for me, lying down? I want to get a better look at his paws. I think I know why he was limping.”

Nic complied, concerned that she might have found something serious. Had he missed something? He hadn’t stopped to check the dog over before getting back on the road. His only thought had been to find somewhere that would take the dog off his hands. When he saw the sign for the Paradise Animal Clinic just past the bridge, it had seemed a good bet. Second-guessing his handling of the situation, he gently but firmly turned the dog on his side, careful not to hurt or scare him. Then, while he held the dog in place, Jillian carefully checked each paw.

“See this? His paws are raw. He’s worn the pads right off. The hot, rough asphalt acts like sandpaper on them. Poor thing…that has to really hurt.” Big blue eyes the color of a cloudless sky looked away from the dog and up at him. Eyes filled with sympathy and determination. “I’m going to call Dr. Marshall. Murphy will need some pain medication, and maybe some antibiotics.” She picked up a phone hung on the back wall of the small room and placed the call. “Hi, Cassie…yes, I’m still here. We’ve got a little problem. Murphy Rosenberg is here. Someone found him on the side of the road again. He seems to be in good shape for the most part, but he’s really done a number on his paws this time. I think you’d better come take a look.”

As he listened to her make arrangements, he let himself look his fill. The concern on her face did nothing to detract from her beauty. Pale blue eyes were a stark contrast to the mass of ebony curls attempting to escape the clip she’d secured it with. Her skin was fair, her cheekbones prominent, and then there was that mouth, those perfectly pink lips that she pursed when she was concentrating. A man would have to be blind not to want to kiss those lips.

That doctor had better show up soon; if he was alone with the sexy vet tech much longer, he might end up panting as badly as the dog in front of him.

Jillian hung up the phone, relieved that help was on the way. And not just for Murphy’s sake. Being alone with his rescuer was making her a bit nervous. Not that she was afraid of him; she couldn’t be afraid of someone willing to stop and help an injured animal the way he had. He just made her…uneasy. Especially when he looked at her with those intense brown eyes, as if he were examining her, looking inside her. Raising her chin, hoping she projected more confidence than she felt, she asked, “Can you carry him into the treatment room for me? We can clean him up a bit while we’re waiting.”

He easily lifted the dog, once again making the movement look effortless. “Just show me where.”

Jillian held the rear exam room door open, allowing him to pass through into the heart of the veterinary hospital. She wondered how it appeared to him. To her the stretches of gleaming chrome and spotless countertops, the bank of cages filling the back wall, the tangy scent of disinfectant were all more familiar than her own apartment. However, she knew the microscopes, centrifuges and bright lights could be intimidating to the uninitiated. Some people actually got a bit queasy. But Nic, who was waiting patiently for her to indicate where to place the dog, seemed unaffected by the medical surroundings.

Pleased by his composure, she pointed to the long, shallow treatment basin covered by a steel grate. The six-foot-long sink was table height, and would allow her to bathe the dog carefully while checking for any other wounds she might have missed. He placed the dog on the grating, and Murphy, no stranger to a bath, behaved himself as she uncurled the spray handle from the end of the table, then rinsed and lathered.

Nic made an excellent assistant; he had rolled up his sleeves, exposing tanned, well-defined forearms that easily maneuvered the soapy canine according to her direction. Thankfully, she could lather and rinse the pleasant-smelling suds on autopilot, because those muscled arms were proving quite the distraction. Worried he might have noticed her staring, she bent down to retrieve a clean towel from the stacks kept below the sink. She tried to focus on toweling the dog off, rather than on the larger-than-life man across the table. But he wasn’t making it easy.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Nic said, unbuttoning his shirt. “This thing smells like, well, wet dog.” He shrugged out of the wet, muddy fabric with a grimace, leaving him standing in an almost as damp, but considerably cleaner, sleeveless undershirt and dress slacks.

Jillian nodded, eyes drawn to his broad, bare shoulders, then down to the impressive biceps that had restrained Murphy so easily. The revealed bronze skin spoke more of Mediterranean ancestry than hours in the sun. The tight undershirt did little to hide the chiseled chest underneath or the flat abdominals below. She might have continued to stare, basking in all that male beauty, if the sound of the front door hadn’t snapped her back to reality.

“Jillian! Jillian! Where’s the doggy? Is he hurt? Can I kiss his boo-boo? Who’s that?” Emma Marshall, four years old and the spitting image of her mother, barreled into the room. Her strawberry-blond ponytail swished as she looked from Emma to Nic, blue eyes blinking rapidly.

“Emma, I told you that someone found a doggy and brought him here so I could help him.” Cassie appeared in the doorway behind her rambunctious tyke. “Hi, I’m Dr. Marshall. Thank you for helping our Murphy here. I’m afraid he’s a repeat offender, but we all love him, anyway.”

“I’m Nic.” Brushing away the compliment, he offered a tired smile and said, “He seems like a nice dog, now that he’s cleaned up.”

“Murphy was a mess when Nic brought him in, covered in mud and God knows what else. He helped me bathe him, but his shirt was a casualty,” Jillian explained.

“My shirt, my tie and my suit jacket. But, hey, who’s counting?” Nic shrugged his shoulders, and then returned his attention to the women in the room. “Can you do something for his paws? They look pretty awful.”

Cassie moved to the table and gently examined each of the dog’s feet. “They do look pretty bad, but they’ll heal quickly. I’ll give him an antibiotic injection to prevent infection, and he can have some anti-inflammatories to help with the pain. Beef-flavored tablets, he’ll love them.” Cassie drew up a syringe of milky-looking fluid. “You aren’t squeamish around needles, are you?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Not at all.” Nic eyed the syringe. “But shouldn’t you be calling his owner? She’s got to be missing him by now, right?” Nic looked first at Cassie, then at Jillian. “Shouldn’t she have to approve treatment or something?”

“Normally, yes,” Jillian answered. “But we have a standing permission for treatment in Murphy’s chart. Remember, this isn’t his first time getting away. Besides, Mrs. Rosenberg won’t be home tonight. She’s over near Orlando on an overnight trip with her seniors group. She mentioned it to me when she stopped in to buy dog food yesterday. Murphy will have to stay here tonight, I guess.” She grimaced. “I hate leaving him. If he scratches at the cage door, he’s going to make his paws worse, and after his big outing, I’d rather he have someone keeping an eye on him. But my apartment manager won’t allow me to take him home, and Cassie—I mean, Dr. Marshall—is currently fostering a dog at her house that doesn’t get along with others. He’d beat poor Murphy up. So he’ll have to stay here until Mrs. Rosenberg gets home.”

Nic’s eyebrows narrowed. “You’re going to just put him in a cage?”

Cassie responded matter-of-factly, “It’s not ideal, but he’ll be safe—a lot safer than he was a few hours ago, thanks to you. There really isn’t any other option.”

“Yes, there is.” Nic was firm, arms crossed. “He can stay with me. The Sandpiper Inn is pet-friendly, and I can bring him back here in the morning or to wherever you say to take him. I’ll keep an eye on him, give him his medication and make sure he’s okay overnight.” His eyes dared anyone to disagree. “I didn’t go through all the trouble of rescuing him to abandon him in the end.”

“I don’t think that will work…we don’t even know you. Mrs. Rosenberg doesn’t know you…” Jillian floundered. In her wildest dreams, she would never have expected this man to offer to play nursemaid to a gimpy dog. Knights in shining armor might be the norm in storybooks, but that kind of thing didn’t happen in real life. Saviors, she knew from personal experience, were few and far between.

Cassie stepped in. “Why don’t I call Mrs. Rosenberg and see what she has to say? We’ll let her decide.” Turning to Nic, she continued, “I’ll need your contact information, and you’ll have to fill out some paperwork, if she agrees. Does that sound all right?”