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The Dating Proposal Page 17
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“Come here, girl,” I call out, and my dog trots along the aisle.
When she reaches us, Chris removes the rings from the pouch on her collar. She’s a good girl; she listens to him now too. He taught her how to surf, and there is nothing cuter than my sexy guy and my dog riding the Pacific waves.
Ms. Pac-Man lies at our feet as Chris slides the wedding band onto my finger, and I do the same for him.
The justice of the peace finishes the ceremony with these final words: “McKenna Bell and Chris McCormick, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Chris kisses me, and it’s as amazing as our first time, as our second, as our third. It’s a kiss that curls my toes, sweeps me off my feet, and melts me.
We dance and toast and eat French fries and other yummy delicacies, and then there’s a karaoke contest. It’s not a fair one, though, because Chris’s sister just won a Tony for Best Actress in a Musical, but that’s why we want to hear her sing. She belts out an amazing rendition of “Overjoyed” by Matchbox Twenty that gives me chills, her voice carrying throughout the tent and far across the ocean, I’m sure.
Late into the night, Chris pulls me aside, and we dance under the twinkling lights.
“Hey, wife.” He loops his arms around my waist.
“Hi, husband,” I say, curving a hand around his neck.
“Are you having a good time?”
I pretend to ponder his question. “Hmm. There are French fries with forty-seven varieties of dipping sauce, including orgasmic ketchup. All my friends are here, and so is my dog. And I’m with my favorite person in the whole world. I’m having the time of my life.” I give him a cheeky smile. “I still want to beat you at Q*bert though.”
“You have a lifetime to do that,” he says then spins me around and brings me in close for another kiss.
I do have a lifetime with him. I have something more too—faith that we’ll go the distance.
As the King would say, some things are meant to be.
I take his hand as we leave the dance floor later that night, stepping into our forever.
* * *
THE END
* * *
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Prologue
* * *
Dude-bros will tell you the pinnacle of male sexual prowess is to make a woman meow.
I will tell you, that’s a dumbass metaphor.
Literal, figurative, it’s complete bullshit.
Cats meow when they’re hurt, hungry, or just plain chatty. A feline might be stressed, pissed, or simply want you to open the goddamn bedroom door at night.
So, the cat’s meow is a myth. I should know.
But the purr? The magical, mysterious, wondrous purr? The aural indication of pussycat pleasure? That’s the mission impossible a man ought to be making come to life. Cats purr for a couple reasons, but the most common one is to show they’re satisfied.
Yes, satisfied.
That’s a man’s job, and that’s why I don’t play small stakes kitty-cat games. No cat’s meows, no pajamas either. My one goal when I get a woman between the sheets is to make her so immensely pleased that she purrs.
I’m not an over-and-out type of guy. There’s no one-and-done for me. I’m a believer in delivering satisfaction in every way, in and out of the bedroom.
That’s exactly what I want to do with a certain someone.
Trouble is, that someone is most definitely off-limits, so it’s time to put a leash on this dog.
But then I learn something wildly unexpected about her, and there’s no way I can turn away from that kind of challenge.
* * *
Chapter One
* * *
She’s gorgeous. An absolute stunner, with captivating green eyes, high cheekbones, and strong legs. Her silky black hair is long and luxurious. She stretches, showing off her nubile body.
I can’t keep my eyes off her.
Or my hands, for that matter.
I run a palm down her back, and she arches against me.
“Doesn’t she seem rather . . . lethargic?” her mistress asks, concern etched in her eyes. I peer closely at the little lady in question.
Those whiskers. That tail. “Sabrina’s mood seems fine. Her heart rate is perfect. Her fur looks great. I see one very healthy pussycat. Why do you think she’s lethargic, Lydia?” I ask as the silky black feline swishes her tail back and forth, rubbing against my hand on the exam table.
Lydia fiddles with a necklace that dangles between her breasts. “She’s not playing with her toys much.”
“Does she normally like to play with toys?”
Lydia drags a hand down her chest. “Oh, she enjoys toys so very much.”
Dammit. I walked right into that one.
But I’m practiced in the art of deadpan deflection. “Well, that would indicate she doesn’t need my services. She seems full of energy here. Is there something else going on at home with her that I should be concerned about?”
Lydia doesn’t look at the kitty. She flicks her chestnut hair off her shoulder, her eyes pinned on me, ignoring the vet tech in the room completely. “She seems to need a little more attention. I feel like that’s what she’s telling me.”
I maintain my completely-unaware-of-her-double-meaning routine. “But you give her lots of attention?”
“I do, but it’s solo, Doctor Goodman. I think she wants it from others, if you know what I mean.”
Yep, I don’t need to be Inspector Poirot to crack the mystery of that case. I figured it out the instant Lydia prowled into the exam room with a cat who is as fit as an Olympic athlete.
I slide around her efforts with a standard vet answer: “Cats are fickle. Some want attention. Some are fine without it.” Sabrina rubs her head against my hand, cranking up the volume as she marks me. But hey, she’s allowed to. Also, cats like me. Dogs like me. I am an absolute animal magnet, and the feeling’s quite mutual.
“See? She likes you. She might want affection from you . . .” Lydia’s eyes take a long, lingering stroll up and down my body.
Time for the full-scale oblivion shield. There’s a fine line between playing dumb and looking stupid, and as a veterinarian, I can’t afford to look bad in front of clients. But as a man, I definitely need to pull off the clueless-to-her-advances act with a particular kind of balance and finesse.
I ask Jonathan, the tech, to hand me a thermometer.
“Of course, Doctor Goodman,” he says, hamming it up as if it’s his utter delight to deliver the device.
Meeting Lydia’s gaze, I brandish the thermometer with a grin. “Sabrina might not be so keen on me after this.”
This is the moment when Lydia will back down, I’m sure. They nearly all do when the mercury comes out.
Instead, Lydia emits a sort of coo, like a songbird. “Oh, I bet she’d love that. I’m up for . . . I mean, she’s up for anything.”
Jonathan snickers, and I sigh. I focus solely on the cat, rather than on this cat-and-mouse game of cat-and-woman sublimation. Fortunately, Sabrina’s just fine, and I tell Lydia so when I’m through with the exam. I snap off my gloves, wash my hands, and tell her to keep an eye on her feline. “If anything changes, let us know.”
She smiles seductively at me. “Oh, I will. My pussycat’s health is quite important to me.”
Stay stoic, Malone. You can do it. You’ve done it before. “Yes, I can see that.”
She waggles her fing
ers. “And if anything changes for you, Doctor Goodman, let me know too.”
Blank face. I give her the 100 percent tabula rasa. “Thanks for coming in today.”
“I’m glad I did.” She rakes her gaze over me. “You’re a regular Doctor Doolittle.”
I’ve only been called that, oh, twelve times a day. But it’s a compliment of the highest order, so I treat it as such. “Thank you.”
She takes a step closer, her stare dropping down, down, down. “Or should I call you Doctor Doolarge?”
I stifle a strangled chuckle—I don’t want to give her any encouragement, especially since I do like her cat, as in the actual feline. “Let’s stick to Doctor Goodman.”
After I say goodbye to Lydia, Jonathan clears his throat, adopting a high-pitched feminine voice. “Tell me, Doctor Doolarge, is it hard being so good-looking?”
I laugh. “It’s the family curse.”
“And such a cross to bear. However do you manage?”
“It’s not easy. Someday, I’ll teach you.”
“Yes, please. I want to know all your secrets.” He shifts to all-business mode. “You have a few clients who requested phone calls.”
I glance at the clock. It’s almost closing time, and I have a show tonight. “No problem. I have time.”
He hands me the call sheet, and I head to my office and pick up the phone. When I’m done, I swing by the front desk where Jonathan and our office manager, Sam, are debating the best spots for craft beer in the West Village.
“Hey, Doctor Doolarge,” Jonathan says, leaning back in his chair, stroking a hand over his bearded jaw. “Got a hot date tonight?”
With her pink hair tied in a huge bun on top of her head, Sam shoots him a skeptical stare. “Don’t ask him that. It’s personal. You shouldn’t pry.” She turns to me, adopts a cheeky smile, then whispers, “But tell me. Are you meeting a secret lady at Gin Joint tonight?”
Laughing, I roll my eyes. “Just my sister and the mic.”
“But it would make such a yummy story. Vet moonlights as lounge singer and meets the love of his life at underground speakeasy. I can see it now.” She spreads her arms wide, making a marquee sign. “They’d want me to play her in the Broadway version of your life story.”
Jonathan scoffs. “You can’t even sing.”
She shoots him a withering glare. “Please don’t ruin my daydreams.”
I rap my knuckles on the counter. “Speaking of dreams, I have a set tonight then a hot date with some paperwork. In fact, it’s the sexiest, steamiest paperwork I’ve ever seen.”
“Just a couple more days, right?” Sam crosses her fingers.
“Here’s hoping,” I add.
“Me too,” Jonathan says.
I head for the door, grabbing the handle.
Jonathan calls out, “Have fun with your paperwork, Dr. Doolarge.” Every syllable drips with mockery.
I will never live down this new nickname with my staff.
But if the deal goes through, I can live with it.
What’s a nickname when you’re about to make your dreams come true?
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