Can't Touch This (Can't Touch This #1)

“Did you seriously just say that?” Her hands slapped onto her hips. “Do you have no filter as well as no off switch?”

I had no idea what she meant by no ‘off switch’ but I would take responsibility for being a jerk.

“Look, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine.” She cut me off. “What seems to be the problem, Mr. umm…Carson.”

The deliberate pause on my name was a stupid power trip. She damn well knew who I was. She’d known it the night I stormed in with a bleeding dog and had been so nice to me. She’d listened with glowing concern and didn’t care that it was just us until well after ten p.m. by the time we’d flushed the poor dog’s system and ensured his vitals were good.

I’d liked her that night.

I’d liked her intelligence and caring and (yes, I will admit it) her perky rack beneath her light blue uniform.

The second visit had gone just as well. She’d listened to me with sincerity and the dog had fucking loved her. I couldn’t stop staring while her hands soothed the skittish creature and her peach lips regaled what she would do to help.

By the third visit, I was mildly obsessed with her and had full intentions of asking her out.

But then, she’d cooled.

And I had no bloody clue why.

The fourth and fifth appointment had been the same. She gave the dogs the best attention, scratched behind their ears, murmured to them in her sexy voice, but gave me no mind. I was just the wallet paying for said service.

Which was fine.

She wanted to be a shrew; I could be a…what? What hunts a shrew? A badger? A fox? Whatever stupid analogy. I would be a pissed off man and let her know I’d take my business elsewhere if she continued being stuck-up.

Go where?

The other vet in town is a seventy-eight-year-old man who can’t see around his cataracts and will probably cut off Heineken’s penis rather than his balls when it’s time to have him neutered.

Nope, I had to stick with Tales of Tails.

And because of that, it was time to chill out and remember how to be a gentleman and not an asshole.

Rubbing the back of my neck while holding the pooch like a soccer ball, I said, “Look, I’m sorry. I haven’t slept all night from rescuing this little tyke.” I held up Pikachu like a white flag of surrender. “I need coffee and it seems like I need to avoid people until I’ve correctly installed my filter.” I half-smiled. “Truce?”

She tilted her head, her nostrils flaring as she deliberated.

“Look, if you’re wondering why I’m impatient, it’s because it’s not me I’m worried about…it’s him.” I jiggled Pikachu. “And the reason I’m being a jerk is because I don’t know how to transmit worry. It just comes across as nasty bastard.”

Accept my apology, please…

I’d tried to be nice. I’d tried to thank her (to really show just how much her tenderness to mistreated animals meant to me), but my patience only stretched so far.

Her hands slid from her hips. “Nasty bastard, huh?”

Pikachu barked as if he understood our minor stand-off.

I shrugged. “Hey, if the description fits.”

“I wouldn’t say it fits.”

My eyebrow rose. “Oh? What would you say?”

She narrowed her eyes, assessing me. “Rushed, worried, empathic.” She sighed. “It’s me who should’ve given you some slack. I know what it’s like to wait while an animal is in pain.”

The tension between us faded.