My scowl deepens, and I flip him off as I drop into my own seat.
But I don’t reply because he’s also not wrong about that shit either.
Instead, I just start up the car and drive toward his building.
Tiramisu.
I need to focus on tiramisu.
Nineteen
Marie
“Meow!”
“Hold on, you demanding little fluff ball,” I mutter as I carefully carry the food dishes across Chrissy’s house and over to the ledge where her surly senior cat named Joan of Freaking Arc (yes, seriously) prefers to eat.
This being because the cat is old and surly…and has seen more rescue animals come through Chrissy’s house than I’ve likely seen in my lifetime.
Jean-Michel’s daughter runs a cat rescue.
His adopted in heart, but not on paper, daughter, Rory, runs a dog rescue.
Together, it’s floof-tastic.
And while Chrissy has several rescue centers and her and Rory both have a team of foster parents and volunteers, every once in a while, I chip in to help with the fluff buckets.
Like when the hockey team that Jean-Michel owns, the Eagles, is on an extended road trip, taking the men, and this time—with me taking care of the pups and surly senior cat—the women too.
I don’t mind.
I’ve got my work—my normal duties along with the material I pulled for Attie.
And I’m out of the hotel room for the next few days, days that should give the contractors enough time to put the final touches on my condo—finish up installing the floor and repainting the baseboards, doors, and walls.
The tile is installed. The vanity is repaired—along with the leak, I’ve been assured.
There’s no avoiding the fact that I’ll be moving home soon.
With Jace and his magnificent dick right down the hall.
I groan, shove that thought out of my head.
I’ll just have to upgrade my vibrator.
Because I’m not going there again. I had my taste, it was glorious, and…now moving back to my regularly scheduled programing.
Plus, Joan and the sweet pups—Athena and Zeus—are good company.
Definitely much simpler company than whatever chaos Angela is orchestrating…and less confusing than my apparent inability to stay away from Jace.
My temple throbs and I shove that thought away.
Lots to do. Lots to distract myself with.
Joan’s food on her perch. Two pups trailing after me as I prepare their meals. Then I’m working on feeding myself—or I start to pull out the ingredients I brought, but then stop and shake my head, a sigh escaping through my exasperated smile.
“Chrissy,” I mutter, pulling out the container that has a sticky note with my name written on it.
