“I volunteer at an animal shelter on Sundays. These guys were so sad. They needed someone to love them. And I did. So I took them home.”
“Even though your apartment had a no-pets policy.”
“I figured that it was easier to ask for forgiveness than to get permission.”
“I don’t think you received either.”
“Look at this little guy.” Rox hoisted him into her arms, burying her fingers in his deep fur. Pirate tucked his forehead under her chin and purred hard. “He was so depressed, living in that little cage for months. How could I just walk away from him?”
Cash stared at the cat—at his ruined ears, the blank fur where his eye used to be, and the scarred pits where he was missing some of his yellow fur—and his eyebrows rose with skepticism. “I’ll leave that to your judgment.”
“I couldn’t,” she said, scratching him under the chin, and Pirate closed his yellow eye in happiness.
“And the others?”
“Same thing. They needed me.”
A slow smile crept over Cash’s face. “It would not have occurred to me that you would rescue three motheaten cats at some risk to yourself. You’re a sweet person, Rox.”
“I am not. You take that back.” She set Pirate down on his paws. He sat and washed his flat face with a paw.
Cash watched the cat smear spit on his face. “So where have you been staying?”
“That’s kind of the problem,” she admitted.
“Oh?” His query was laced with wariness, and he began watching her more closely again.
“I couldn’t find a hotel that took animals, and I swear to God,allmy friends are allergic or have aggressive dogs or something.”
Cash looked horrified again. “So where have you been staying?”
“I’ve been sleeping in my car and showering at my gym.”
“In yourcar?You can’t sleep in your car inLos Angeles.There are homeless persons, and vagrants, and criminals. It’s notsafe.You can’tdothat.”
“I didn’t have any other options,” she said.
“Of course you did. You could have calledme.I’m not allergic to cat hair—”
“It’s actually the dander, not the hair.”
“—and I don’t have a dog to frighten them.”
Rox fidgeted, digging her toe into the flat carpet. “But, you’re a guy.”
“Does not follow,” he said, his eyebrows drawing farther down. That was lawyer-speak for something illogical or that he couldn’t understand.
“I can’t ask aguyif I can come sleep on his couch. Itimpliesthings.”
“Gender propriety rules do not apply when you arehomeless.This isappalling.”Cash ran one hand through his hair.
And yet she had no choice. There was one damn good reason why she hadn’t told him. “And, you’reyou.”
“What on Earth is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“You’reCash Amsberg.You’rethatguy in the office.”
His brilliant green eyes lit with anger.“What guy?”
