I wouldn’t let her pay me when her pet sitter got ill, so she and—I sigh again, shaking my head—Rory also, apparently, came up with an alternate form of payment.
Chicken pot pie.
And a huge, M&M-covered caramel apple.
My stomach rumbles and I pull both—along with a Diet Coke (not because I’m counting calories, but because I like the taste, okay?)—and set them on the counter. Then read the instructions on the note and turn on the oven.
I pop the pot pie onto a cookie sheet and slide it onto the rack (who needs preheating anyway?).
Then I put the puppers out of their misery and make their dinner, watching as they scarf it down in mere seconds before I take them into the back yard and let them do their bathroom business.
When we make it inside again, the timer is ready to go off, so I wash my hands, get a plate out and slice myself a salad, er, cut myself a chunk of the caramel apple.
Po-tay-toe. Po-tah-toe.
And then I’m diving into my food, a pair of pups laying on my legs, their begging eyes locked onto my fork during each and every trip it makes from my plate to my mouth. I don’t cave on the chicken pot pie front, but I do give them an extra cookie after I’ve finished my chunk of candy-covered apple and wash the dishes.
As they chew, I snap some pictures of the critters, send them off to their respective owners, then the pups are in their crates and I’m bedding down in the guest room, a prickly Joan curled up at my feet.
She hisses at me, giving my legs a half-hearted swat as I settle in, but when I wake up, it’s to find her curled against my hip.
I lay there, the sunshine of early morning streaming in through the windows, thinking that maybe I need to give in to all the cuteness that Rory and Chrissy trade in, and adopt a pet. Yeah, I travel a lot, but I could get a small dog, bring it with me like one of those fancy socialites. Or I could befriend a surly senior cat who prefers her solitude, hiring a pet sitter to check in regularly when I’m not home.
Either option would work.
I just don’t know which is best yet.
Anyway, it’d be nice to not be alone every night.
And, since I’m not going to invite a man to share my bed, then it seems like a pet of some sort might be the best option.
Eventually, my cell buzzes, my alarm quietly chiming, and I snap out of my head.
Joan swats and hisses at me again as I climb out of bed, but her claws are sheathed, and I’m feeling the same streak of grumpiness, anyway. I’m liking the lazy morning, don’t want to get out of bed.
Duty calls, though.
And with Jean-Michel gone, I need to hold down the fort.
So, I take care of pups and the senior cat. I make myself a light breakfast and pack the leftover apple and pot pie for my lunch. I do my makeup, put on my office casual, and then I go to work.
But all day long, I can’t shake the feeling that a pet isn’t going to fill the nagging loneliness inside me.
That only one thing can.
And it’s also the one thing that I will never—ever—allow myself to have.
Twenty
Jace
“And then,”I say after draining the dredges of my beer and setting the bottle onto the counter with aclink, “I wake up in the morning and the fucking woman is just gone. Gone!”
Brooks lips twitch and I don’t refuse the fresh beer he passes over. “Women are complicated.”
I scowl, something I’ve been doing a lot since Marie hijacked my Lyft. “They make thingsunnecessarilycomplicated,” I mutter.
“This is true,” he agrees, taking a swig of his own bottle.
