And when he belts out the chorus to an old obscure Bon Jovi, it’s clearer than ever that this is not a decision. It’s a foregone conclusion. It’s destiny or fate or whatever natural force decides the future and what should or shouldn’t happen.
But before I’m courageous enough to tell him that I might be feeling the L-word, I pull the car into the vet’s parking lot. It’s dark out now and I can’t see much but his silhouette because the moon is behind him, but even that is more than my pathetic heart knows what to do with.
But when we walk inside under the bright fluorescent lights of the entry, I’m struck again–like the thousandth time since I’ve been in the car with him–by how handsome he is. It’s not just one thing either. Like it isn’t just that he has good hair or eyes I could lose myself in. Or his chiseled jaw. The lashes that frame his eyes. The cheekbones. The body. It’s everything about him.
Everything.
I have an account here for Cheddar because once he went full kamikaze banzai off the roof when he got stuck in a tree at three a.m. when an ex–hmm, it was Caleb. Figures.
Cheddar ran straight up the tree like he’s Jackie Chan, then zigged and zagged higher and higher from the fireman who’d tried to save him. In an unfortunate feline turn of events, Cheddar misjudged the space between the roof and the branch, leaped, and hit the roof, then slid down, bounced off the guttering, and ended up falling onto his back. He meowed at full volume then went so still I couldn’t see his breath. We’d gotten a fire rescue escort to the vet.
I’d thought Cheddar had died, but as soon as we walked into the vet’s office, he cashed in for a second life and immediately started a brawl with a Pomeranian who tried to swing Cheddar around by his tail.
Walker still held the cat who is purring loud enough I can hear her. Just another woman who’s under his spell. I’m not surprised. I don’t know of any woman who could resist Walker if he puts his mind into convincing her. And obviously this kitty is convinced.
When the vet calls us back, we stand and walk back together. The cat hangs onto Walker, although I stroke her fur and she licks my hand. I guess we’re all friends now.
The vet, Dr. John Maclane–like Bruce Willis’s character in Die Hard–smiles at me then at the cat he takes from Walker and moves to the examination table. “Hi, Belle. How’s Cheddar?”
“On his fifth or sixth life now, but he’s settling in.” Aside from the roof, Cheddar has gone for a swim in the kitchen sink and tried to pull the toaster in with him. He’s run and jumped through a plate glass window. Or rather tried and knocked himself out cold. He ate–or I thought he did–a dishwasher pod, but it was only the plastic covering to a whistle that was inside one of his toys. He did eat the whistle and for two days every time my flatulent feline farter his ass played a C-sharp. Me and Molly joke that Cheddar is either daredevil or manic-depressive.
It’s been a few months since I’ve had to take him to see this vet or any other, but there’s something to be said for being on a first name basis with all the vets in a hundred mile radius.
Dr. Maclane looks at the kitten and pets her, stroking a hand down her back as he looks at me. “We found her. Just want to make sure she’s not chipped and some ten year old is home crying her eyes out missing her kitten, and that said kitten is healthy and doesn’t need medicine.”
Maclane nods. “Give me twenty minutes.” And he takes the kitten to another room where he’ll do the normal tests and scan her for a chip.
We wait in the exam room and I glance at Walker. “Thank you for coming along.”
He nods. “Least I can do.”
“When you woke up this morning, did you think this is how the day would end? You’d be sitting in a veterinarian's office after hours an hour from home with a cat that may or may not be yours be when we walk out.” I smile at him. There’s literally no way not to smile at him when he smiles first. And no reason not to.
He looks down at his hands in his lap like he’s ashamed of the admission he’s about to make. “I don’t know anything about cats.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a dog person.” I let my face fall, although I don’t think the answer is going to matter very much to me. I’m an all around pet person–dogs, cats, horses, gerbils–but cats are independent enough that when I’m spending an entire day away to run a series of open houses, Cheddar can handle himself.
Walker chuckles and the sound is my cocaine. Suddenly, I’m almost euphoric.
“I am. But I could learn about cats.” His voice is as smooth as butter, and when he grins after, it’s enough to make me swoon. I don’t, but it wouldn’t be out of line. “If I have someone to tutor me. Show me their ways.”
And no matter what happens between us, we’re in this together. Especially when Dr. Maclane comes back and says, “No chip and she’s perfectly healthy.” He hands the cat to Walker. “She’s a couple months old, so make an appointment with your regular vet. She’s going to need some shots and a collar in case she pulls a Cheddar.” He smiles at me, and I shrug at Walker.
“Sometimes Cheddar likes to exercise his getaway skills.” Sounds way worse than it is since I’ve stopped calling fire/rescue to save him. Now I let him come home on his own. But I’m convinced if he ever got stuck in a place like Alcatraz, he would be able to find his way out and beat me back home.
“Perfectly healthy.” Walker smiles at me as he says the words. The tone of his voice, rich and deep, sends warmth spiraling through me. If this is going to work out between us, and I really hope it does, I’m going to have figure out how to build some sort of resistance to all the different parts of him that I find too attractive to combat. “What shall we name her?”
I try not go giddy at the fact that he’s said “we,” because I don’t want to embarrass myself. And this is a serious matter. Something “we” will have to explain and justify any time someone meets the cat. It’s like naming a kid. Everyone has opinions, and not too many people are shy about sharing them.
I look at the kitten. There are probably a thousand names that will work–Spot, Oreo, One-thousand and Two since she looks like a dalmatian–but there’s only one that works. “What do you think about naming her Swiss?”
“Like the cheese.” He grins and holds the cat over his heart, stroking her with his index finger, back and forth and I watch his finger almost mesmerized by what I know it feels like. I’m so enamored, I almost miss his slow smile when it slides across his face. “Swiss and Cheddar. I like it.” And then because I’m not quite weak enough for him yet, he kisses the top of Swiss’s head and puts her back inside his shirt.
Before we leave, he goes hands free with the kitten, and she climbs out of the shirt (it makes me question her judgment) and moves up his chest to rest on his shoulder while he pays the bill. I’ve never seen anything so adorable before in my life. There’s something to be said for a man and his cat.
When we walk back to the car, my body is quivering with need to straighten this all out. Well, that and need to be with him on more than this friendly level we’ve established through the bond over the cat.
Instead of letting him open my door, I pull him in by the front of his shirt and kiss him, melding my mouth to his while my hands roam and his cradle my face. The cat is on his shoulder and she’s ignoring us like cats do.
