Page 2 of Curious Hearts (The Healing Hearts #2)

CHAPTER TWO

The Great Dane whined nervously, pressing his massive body against Ali Ritchie’s legs as she increased the volume on her storm simulation app. The tablet on her desk played rumbling thunder through Bluetooth speakers strategically placed around the office.

“It’s okay, Nigel,” Ali said, kneeling beside the dog. She placed her palm gently on his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat through the thin fur. “Deep breaths, buddy. We’ll get through this together.”

The dog’s owner, a short man with a concerned expression, checked his watch. “So this thunder therapy actually works? He demolished my Italian leather couch during the last gale.”

“Systematic desensitization,” Ali corrected, not looking up from the dog. “And yes, with consistency and patience.” She scratched behind Nigel’s ears, her touch steady as another crack of simulated thunder blasted through the speakers. This time, the dog flinched but didn’t panic. Progress.

“You did great today, Nigel.” Ali rose to her feet, feeling the familiar ache in her lower back from hours spent at animal level. “Keep playing those storm sound recordings I sent you, Mr. Brennan. Five minutes daily, gradually increasing volume.”

After the Great Dane and his owner left, Ali collapsed into her desk chair, stretching her arms overhead until her spine offered a satisfying crack. Chairman Meow, who had been observing the session from the top of a bookshelf, leapt down to claim his rightful place on her keyboard.

“Move, you fuzzy tyrant,” she said affectionately, displacing the one-eyed tabby to reach her coffee mug.

The black liquid inside had gone cold hours ago, a greasy scum floating on the surface, but she drank it anyway with a grimace as she read through the morning’s case files.

When she came to the file for a Siamese named Ming, she let out an exasperated sigh.

“Margo!” she shouted, then paused. Her office door opened with glacial slowness before Margo, her assistant, drifted in with the unhurried tranquility of a sloth on vacation. She leaned against the doorframe as if standing fully upright required too much effort.

“What treatment did you suggest to Mrs. Alexander?”

The blonde-haired woman frowned. “I suggested she try a different brand of litter,” Margo replied, narrowing her eyes. “The scented kind was aggravating Beethoven’s asthma.”

“No, after that. The part about the...” Ali rotated her hand, as though urging more information out of the woman’s mouth, despite already knowing the answer.

“The holistic calming collar?” Margo offered.

“No. The YouTube meditation videos for cats.” Ali dropped her head into her hands, sending her dark hair cascading over her fingers. “Please tell me you didn’t charge Mrs. Alexander for that advice.”

“It was just a suggestion!” Margo protested. “My roommate’s cat loves those videos. They’re specifically tuned to feline brainwaves.”

Ali peered through her fingers. “Margo, we’re trying to run a legitimate animal behavioral practice, not a New Age pet spa. Mrs. Alexander already thinks we’re overcharging her.”

“Well, maybe if we added crystal therapy, she’d feel like she was getting her money’s worth,” Margo muttered.

Ali let out a small, strangled scream. “Go call her and tell her to ignore everything you said after ‘try changing the litter.’”

As Margo slid away, Ali sank back in her chair and surveyed the organized chaos of her workspace.

Stacks of research papers covered most available surfaces.

A bookshelf overflowed with veterinary journals and animal psychology texts.

Three separate cat beds occupied corners of the room, though her cat, Chairman Meow, invariably chose to sleep on her keyboard instead.

The cat in question now head-butted her hand, demanding attention.

“At least you’re not into YouTube meditation, are you, buddy?” She scratched under his chin, earning a rumbling purr. His fur was warm against her fingers, comforting in its familiarity. “No, you save your craziness for three a.m. parkour sessions across my face.”

Chairman Meow blinked his single golden eye at her with what she swore was indignation.

Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the caller ID: UNKNOWN. Probably another desperate pet owner. Her shoulders tensed at the thought of adding one more case to her already overloaded schedule, but she couldn’t bring herself to ignore it.

“Healing Paws, this is Dr. Ritchie,” she answered, cradling the phone with her shoulder while continuing to pet the cat.

“Dr. Ritchie, this is Zachary Landers, Ms. Jessica Taylor’s executive assistant.

” The voice was crisp and professional, with an undertone of imperious efficiency that made Ali sit up straighter.

“Ms. Taylor would like to schedule an immediate consultation regarding a multi-cat household she’s recently inherited. ”

Ali cocked her head, dislodging Chairman Meow, who gave her an offended glare. Her free hand unconsciously moved to smooth her wrinkled shirt, as if the caller could see her disheveled state.

“Jessica Taylor?” The name tickled something in her memory. “Wait. Is this regarding Vivian Porter’s cats?”

A pause. “Yes, exactly. How did you?—”

“Vivian was a major donor to our foundation,” Ali explained, a wave of sadness washing over her. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. “I’m so sorry for Ms. Taylor’s loss. Vivian was an extraordinary woman.”

Another pause. “Yes, well, Ms. Taylor would like to arrange a consultation as soon as possible. Tomorrow, if you’re available.”

Ali glanced at her schedule and tried to decipher her notes. Never an easy task. She had a home visit in the afternoon, but her morning was clear after a cancellation. She chewed her lower lip, calculating how early she’d need to wake up to review Vivian’s cats’ files before the appointment.

“I could come by the house at ten tomorrow morning?” she offered.

“That would be acceptable. The address is?—”

“Four eighty-seven North Downing,” Ali finished. “I’ve been there before... many times.”

After confirming the appointment and ending the call, Ali leaned back in her chair, remembering the last time she’d visited Vivian’s house.

The elderly woman had been frail but sharp as ever, sitting in her sunroom surrounded by her beloved cats, each one a rescue with its own tragic backstory.

The house had smelled of Vivian, a distinctive but not unpleasant rose talcum powder, and the woman herself had sat propped up by piles of brightly colored cushions, enjoying the afternoon sun surrounded by those closest to her. Her clowder of cats.

“When I’m gone,” Vivian had said, seemingly out of nowhere, her voice soft but clear, “my niece will need your help.”

“Your niece?” Ali had asked, surprised because she never knew the woman had any family to speak of.

“Jessica.” Vivian’s eyes had twinkled with mischief, crinkling at the corners like folded tissue paper.

“She’s brilliant but closed off. Like Empress.

” She’d nodded toward the imperious calico who observed them from the highest bookshelf.

“That one took three years to let me touch her. Jessica’s been keeping people at arm’s length even longer, thanks to that mother of hers. ”

Ali had nodded, not entirely following why Vivian was telling her this.

“She thinks she’s allergic to cats,” Vivian had continued with a knowing smile. “That’s what she said. Why she doesn’t visit. But really, she’s just allergic to honesty and vulnerability. Maybe you can help her with both those conditions.”

She hadn’t given it much thought at the time, simply put it down to an old woman’s wonderings, but now, Ali reached for her laptop, curious about the woman who’d inherited Vivian’s menagerie.

A quick search revealed a professional headshot on the Hamilton Trust website—an elegant woman with deep amber skin, high cheekbones, and dark eyes that held the camera’s gaze with unwavering confidence.

Her curly hair was pulled back into a sleek, professional style, and her expression was composed, focused, and utterly serious.

Ali’s breath caught. The photograph captured a woman who was undeniably beautiful, but it was more than that.

There was something in those dark eyes—an intensity that made Ali’s stomach flutter unexpectedly.

She leaned closer to the screen, drawn by the sharp intelligence in Jessica’s gaze, the determined set of her jaw, the way even in a still photo she seemed to radiate power.

“Investment Director,” Ali read aloud, her voice echoing in the quiet office. “Yale undergrad, Wharton MBA.”

Chairman Meow jumped back onto the desk, sprawling across the keyboard with perfect timing, obscuring Jessica Taylor’s face.

“I see your point,” Ali told the cat, though she immediately nudged him aside, needing another look. “She does look uptight.”

She skimmed through several articles featuring Jessica Taylor, including a Forbes “40 Under 40” profile that praised her “razor-sharp analytical skills” and “unflappable demeanor in high-pressure negotiations.”

A more recent article caught her eye—a profile in 5280, Denver’s Mile High Magazine, titled “The Taylor Algorithm: Denver’s Billion-Dollar Brain.”

In the feature photo, Jessica was smiling, only just, but the effect transformed her face.

The subtle curve of her lips softened her features, revealing warmth beneath the professional veneer.

Ali found herself staring at that mouth, wondering what it would take to earn a full smile.

Heat crept up her neck as she imagined those lips laughing, speaking softly, maybe even?—

She shook her head sharply, disturbed by the direction of her thoughts.

Kristi and Fenna were right, she really needed to get out more.

Maybe even get laid, but that thought brought with it the horrors of online dating, and she refused to go there again.

She huffed and went back to reading the article, safer just to focus on work.

“She doesn’t just read markets, she anticipates them,” the article read. “Clients and colleagues call it the Taylor Algorithm: part data, part instinct, and entirely unmatched.”

Ali scrolled through a few more photos, her pulse quickening with each image.

Jessica at a podium, gesturing with elegant hands that Ali couldn’t help but notice.

Jessica leaning forward at a conference table, the intensity of her focus somehow magnetic even through a screen.

Jessica in a black dress at some charity gala, the fabric clinging to curves that her business suits only hinted at.

Stop it , Ali told herself firmly, closing the laptop with more force than intended.

She pushed it away . She’s a client. A very professional, very straight-laced client who probably irons her socks and dates men called Benjamin.

And definitely, definitely not someone who would look twice at a disaster of an animal behaviorist who can barely keep her own life together.

Chairman Meow gave her a look that seemed suspiciously knowing, his tail swishing against her coffee mug, nearly knocking it over.

“Don’t judge me,” Ali told him, her cheeks burning. “I’m just doing my job...”

But Ali couldn’t help wondering about Vivian’s niece.

The image of the impeccable Jessica Taylor surrounded by seven unpredictable felines with distinct personalities and needs created such a clash of worlds that Ali had to suppress a laugh.

She was intrigued to see how this could possibly play out as anything other than a disaster movie, and with looks like that, Jessica Taylor would make a great lead.

The fact that Vivian had arranged this particular collision of worlds suggested she was orchestrating something from beyond the grave. And knowing Vivian, it wasn’t simply about finding her cats a new caretaker.

“Just what were you playing at, Vivian?” she murmured, absently stroking Chairman Meow. The office had grown darker as the storm clouds gathered outside, shadows lengthening across the cluttered space.

Ali glanced at the photo again, pulse jumping as she studied Jessica’s face once more. Nobody could deny the woman was stunning. But of all the people Vivian could’ve chosen, why had she picked her…

She rose from her desk, joints cracking after too many hours kneeling, and moved to the window. Rain began to patter against the glass as the first real drops of the storm arrived. She could almost hear Vivian’s gentle laugh, could almost see the mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

You always did enjoy a bit of chaos, Vivian, didn’t you?

And Ali had the unsettling feeling she was about to become part of it.