“Yeah, right.” House sitter was my guess. I flopped onto the sofa and said, “You’d think whoever owns this place could afford to buy a few novels. The Merck Veterinary Manual doesn’t exactly sound like a dynamic read.”

“You’d change your mind if you read the section on acute respiratory diseases in chickens,” Oswald said, and his lips went up at one corner in a crooked smile that I found enchanting. “Let’s go over any other symptoms.”

“Maybe you should take me to the nearest free clinic.”

Oswald went around the desk and brought out a black leather medical case with OKG monogrammed in gold.

“Who’s OKG?” I asked.

“Oswald Kevin Grant, MD. Me, Doctor,” he said, and I smiled because it was kind of funny.

“You’re really a doctor?”

“I take care of the animals here. Do you have a headache?” he asked. “Any dizziness?”

“No to the headache, but I’ve always suffered from the occasional bouts of ditziness,” I said as he took a stethoscope from his bag.

“Chest or neck pain? Nausea? Cold hands or tingling?” He took my hand, sending a buzz through me.

“That!” I said. “When you touch me, I get this zizz sensation, but it’s nice. It doesn’t itch.”

“I didn’t ask if it itched.”

“Well, I know things aren’t supposed to itch. It feels … good.”

“That’s not new with you.”

“Of course it is. It’s not normal, is it?”

“You’re not normal.” He slipped the stethoscope under the torn collar of my sweatshirt and listened, his long-fingered hands tantalizingly close to my girly parts.

I’d finally meet a fabulous man with impressive veterinary skills and I was dressed like an extra in Flashdance. “Oswald?”

“Yes?”

“Did we, you know …”

“Let’s concentrate on your health now, why don’t we?”

It would have been easy to lean forward and kiss him.

He asked, “How’s your vision?”

I blinked and looked at the bindings on the bookshelves. I could read even the smallest print clearly. “Hard to tell with my contacts in, but it seems terrific.”

“You don’t wear contacts, Milagro.”

I licked my finger and touched my eyeball to feel around for the lens. I poked a few more times until Oswald pulled my hand away.

“Did I get Lasik?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he went to the desk and began tapping away at a computer. “I’ve never dealt with memory loss.”

“Can you tell when a chicken has memory loss? Regardless, I’m sure I’ll remember every fascinating detail of my exciting life in a few minutes and you won’t have to bother Mercedes.”

Although I tried to relax and let my brain recover, I was distracted by Oswald. He had wonderful cheekbones, a clear, pale complexion, and a most intriguing, wide mouth. His chestnut brown hair was brushed back off his broad brow.