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Can't Touch This Read Online

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Read Online Books/Novels:

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

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Tess Hunter

Language:
English
Book Information:

I don’t want to touch it.
I really, really don’t.
He’s egotistical, crass, and my patient’s owner—which makes him totally off limits.
Yep, that’s right. He owns the wiener I’m currently working on.
A wiener dog—get your dirty mind out of the gutter.
I’ve also worked on his spoodle, his cocker-shitzu, and a cheagle—don’t ask. (And no, it’s not a sexual position.)
It doesn’t help that he also represents most of my joint-owned veterinary practice’s small clientele. We’d only just opened the doors a few months ago, and in he strode with a yelping Taco Terrier. One haughty look at our sparkling new facilities, he’d demanded royal treatment, even though I was currently finger deep up a squalling tom cat.
Ever since then, he expects me to serve him.
Any time. All the time.
Him and his revolving zoo of dogs.
One of these days, I’m going to swat him for being such a pompous ass but I can’t deny the way he handles his charges makes me want to see past the ‘do as I say and don’t ask questions’ barking exterior.
But then last week…he caught me staring at his um, cough, package.
His bossy commands switched to a cocky smirk.
He gave me permission to do something I promised myself I would never ever do.
I can touch it.
If I want…

Books in Series:

Can’t Touch This Series by Tess Hunter

Books by Author:

Tess Hunter Books

CHAPTER ONE

———————

Vesper

“OH GOD, OH GOD, OH God.”

“Wow, you’re feeling extra religious this morning.”

I looked up, glowering at my best friend and business partner, Polly Dartford. Yes, her name sounded as if she’d stepped from a musical and somehow ended up in a Jane Austen love story, but her head was screwed on so damn tight, I honestly didn’t know how we’d made it through university together.

I thought the key to a ‘dynamic duo’ was one was kooky and fun and not afraid to shag a few bad choices or drink a few stupid decisions, while the other was so straight-laced her life was a proverbial straight jacket.

We couldn’t both be so by-the-book and organised and disciplined—where was the fun in that? And how were we supposed to relax when we wound each other up with work stress and life worries?

She was supposed to be the funny one while I was the serious one.

But no.

There was no opposite in our girl bestie relationship.

“He just walked in. Didn’t he? I think I hear him.” I stood on my tiptoes, improving just marginally on my average height that I refused to jazz up with heels (screw that, they hurt my feet). I did my best to sneak a peek through the small window on the door to reception.

Polly rolled her eyes. “If you’re so freaked out about helping him, take my eleven a.m. appointment and I’ll do yours.”

Oh, really?

As if.

She didn’t do well with anything off track from her colour-coded diary. Hell, who was I kidding? I was the same. My phone regularly beeped with reminders and friendly prods to stay on track with my responsibilities.

That was the reason (but not the only reason—oh no, not by a long way) why I could barely tolerate Ryder Carson.

Dropping my voice, I hissed, “Nice offer, but next time, actually put some enthusiasm and commitment behind it.”

Polly huffed. “Whatevs, it’s called being supportive.”

“Being supportive means actually wanting to do what you just said because it benefits your best friend.”

“Pfffftttt.” She laughed. “Who would honestly want to deal with that man?”

“Exactly my point.”

She squinted at the window, trying to make out if it was him or not.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if he made a damn appointment.” I swiped hair from my blue eyes that earned a lashing of mascara in the mornings and that was it. No eyeliner, no colourful eye shadows—no beautification of any kind, thank you very much. After all, what was the point?

Most days I hung around females of the human variety and a menagerie of the animal kind. A four-legged friend didn’t care if I looked like a haggard twenty-four-year old or a botoxed diva.

As long as I cured them, that was all they needed to know.

“How about you put your foot down this time?” Polly finished wrapping the final dressing on the poor tabby’s leg that’d been hit by a car, and cocked her chin for me to grab the bottom corners of the medical sheet the unconscious pussy cat lay on.

Together (thanks to years of practice), we lifted seamlessly and ever so gently placed the kitty back into its cage for it to wake as the anaesthesia faded.

The setting of broken bones was easy these days. The sight of blood and scalpels had been my worst nightmare when we’d suffered our first practical classroom together at Trithorn University. We’d met at orientation—bumping into each other as we jotted notes into matching moleskin journals.

It had been love at first sight.

However, our chosen profession had not. We’d almost thrown up on that first practical, staring with tear-filled eyes at the frozen but now thawed mouse we had to dissect.

Funny how education, age, and time could turn even the timid of students into capable veterinarians.

Now, we could perform minor to major operations without breaking a rapid heartbeat.

“My foot has been down, Pol. Since the very first time he waltzed his stupid butt in here.”

Polly laughed. “And he does have a butt. A nice butt. But I don’t know if it’s stupid.” She cocked her head. “Besides, how does one’s anatomy go about becoming stupid when its only function is forward prolusion and a comfy cushion to sit on?”

“Shush it.” I massaged my temples. “Why are you thinking so in-depth about his butt?”

“Why are you bringing his butt into conversation?”

“Ugh, I can’t win with you.”

She giggled harder, arranging the drip and checking the cat’s mouth position while it slumbered in la-la land. “I’ve seen you looking at it.”

No way.

I haven’t.

I got an eye full when he put that Great Dane on the table but that’s it.

Polly waggled her eyebrows. “I hear your brain trying to come up with excuses. Just own it, Ves. You looked. You liked. You ogled.”

“I did not ogle.” My chin rose with a haughty sniff. “I’m a professional.”

“A professional who appreciates good looks.”


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