He twitches his tail like it’s a lie detector and I’m testing positive for falsehoods.
“And tonight, I’m reconnecting with an old friend,” I add.
That’s honestly what it feels like, and I latch on to that hope as if it’s my life raft.
I don’t think about how I need to ask him to tell me exactly what he remembers of Aunt Zinnia calling things off between us back before both of our careers exploded.
Hashtag yawns and settles in my lap, his thick, deep purrs vibrating against my legs and belly.
“He istooan old friend,” I mutter.
An old friend you want to get naked with, I can practically hear my cat thinking.
Or possibly he’s thinking I need a vacation, since there’s probably little chance my cat is actually accusing me of wanting to sleep with Cooper, which, let’s be honest, is possibly the only thought that could distract me from wallowing in my sudden questions about my aunt’s integrity and the validity of my own success.
And there goes my stomach grumbling again.
Hashtag eyeballs it, then me.
“Stop with the judgment,” I tell him. “I have one life to live and I’m making the most of every minute.”
If you were making the most of every minute, you’d quit pretending you only want to talk to Cooper tonight,my cat replies.
Silently.
With all kinds of imperious know-it-allness in his green eyes.
“Quit putting your horniness on me,” I tell him. “I heard you singing your head off for that tiger on TV who couldn’t give you the time of day yesterday.”
He lays his head over my lap and gives a sigh-purr-harumph, like he’s done talking about this.
And I look at my sweatpants.
Should I change?
Is this too casual for a talk?
I didn’t want to do leggings for fear he’d get the wrong impression if I was wearing tight clothing—plus my stomach’s in no mood for tight clothing—but an oversized crop top hoodie and sweatpants might be a little too sloppy.
There’s no way I’m doing jeans. I don’t have a single pair that has enough give in the waist to accommodate my angry stomach tonight.
“Should I change?” I ask Hashtag.
He blinks one long, slow blink.
Cat experts tell me that’s his way of saying he loves me, but I feel more like he’s calling me a dumbass.
And Hashtag is right.
I’mtalkingto Cooper. I don’t have to get fancy for him. He texted with me while dressed like Richard Simmons and told me he liked my eyelashes.
“He’ll be hungry after the game, won’t he?” I ask the cat. “I should ask Hiramys to have a hamburger sent up too. Or a quinoa bowl. He eats healthy during baseball season, doesn’t he?”
And there goes my stomach again.
Hashtag flips onto his back—yes, still in my lap—and stares at me with one ear stuck under his head and his teeth hanging out weird.
“Okay.Okay. I’m overthinking. If he wants food, he can order it himself. Happy now?”
