“We can get them now.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do with your afternoon.”
“This is what I want to do.”
I absently stroke my fingers through the cat’s soft coat and stare out the window.
“You should really name her,” he says.
“She might already have a name.”
“So, she’ll have two.”
“Then you name her.”
“Gladly.” He looks over with that smirk of his. “Queenie.”
The pink collar with sparkles and a tiny silver bell was Dice’s choice. I think she looks ridiculous. No self-respecting cat would wear that with pride. And yet she preens. Tinkly like royalty. Just like he knew she would.
Dice drops me off at the car, then gasses it up and loads the trunk with cat treats, toys, and a fluffy bed he tossed in at the last minute. I didn’t ask him to do any of it or to whip out his wallet and insist on paying.
I’m not used to men handling things for me. I don’t let them, much preferring my independence over relying on someone else. But this afternoon it felt good. The kind of good that would only end up wrecking me. Again.
“Thank you,” I say, my tone more clipped than I intended.
“It was fun, Lot. We should hang out again. Catch up next time. I want to hear all about New York. Talk about whatever misunderstanding might have transpired before you left.”
Misunderstanding? How can he be so dense? So oblivious? Does he not know? Does he think we can just clear the air and pick up from wherever we left off… which was in completely different places?
“Not much point,” I say, sliding Queenie onto the passenger seat and climbing in on the other side. “I’ll be leaving soon.”
“But you’re here for now. Think about it.”
I swallow, my throat tightening. I close the door without answering and turn on the engine. As I pull away from the curb, I glance in the rearview mirror to watch him walk over to his car, that confident swagger still so familiar.
If this afternoon proved anything, it’s that the more miles I put between Dice and me, the better.
Chapter Five
Dice
Did you know webs are stronger than steel?
Lot’s laugh still echoes. It was husky, full-bodied, and unfiltered. The kind she only lets out when her guard slips. Which it did earlier.
I close the ice lid and wipe down the bar. I’d stopped by under the guise of grabbing the inventory forms. Mostly, I just wanted to see her again. She was sitting at the desk, while Queenie pranced across it, the bell chiming. I braved trying to pet her again, but the little menace turned away, flicking her tail across my face.
“I’m starting to like her,” Lot said, laughing hard as she gave Queenie an approving head rub.
Lot could be tough. Sharp edges and careful detachment. But she has a soft underbelly she doesn’t often let show. I saw it the first time we met.
I was eleven. My mother, Jasinder, and I had just moved into the house next door to the Webbers. Days later, on a sunny afternoon, Ispotted her: a plump little girl, maybe seven or eight, barefoot on a stepladder. Hair in two puffballs tied with yellow ribbons. Pleated Sunday dress. Leotards and polished shoes abandoned in the grass. She was reaching up with determined arms toward the side of the house.
She wobbled once, almost fell, but caught herself and tried again.
Curious, I leaned over the short wooden fence. “What are you doing?”
She didn’t startle. Just turned and looked at me with big, fearless eyes. “I’m bringing her home.”
