I leap into action. Have to hide my recording equipment under the bed. Shove my knitting under my underwear and swim trunks in my duffel bag. Unplug my computer and stash it behind the wedding gift that Chandler will hate and Emma will laugh and laugh and laugh over.
And then I peek out the peephole again.
The women are still there.
I could leave off the deck on the ocean side of the bungalow, but that would put the kittens at risk of discovery when Laney goes snooping, and right now, I don’t have a better place to keep them or a way to get them there without being spotted and questioned by my guard at the front door.
I’m trapped.
I hate feeling trapped.
Hate. It.
Reminds me of school.
Rather be back at the pool. Hanging out. Drinking tropical drinks. Flirting with a few ladies. Eating fish.
Eating.
Just eating.
But instead of wallowing in self-pity, I indulge in kitten therapy. Miss Doodles—yes, that’s mama cat, and no, I have no regrets about her name—isn’t as hostile as she could be, but she’s still a scratch risk while she’s being protective of her kittens, which I’m guessing are about a month old. Eyes are open. Ears are up. They’re playing with each other. Using the litter box. Attacking the toys I picked up yesterday after I found them.
And still nursing off of Miss Doodles, whom I’m working to fully win over.
If I could move in here and close the kittens inside the ginormous bathroom in this primary bedroom, I would. But I can’t.
This bedroom is an open-concept suite. A half-wall separates the bed from the tub. Two sinks are opposite the wide shower, and the closet has no door. I’d have to trap them in the throne room, and I’m not doing that to the kittens. And putting them in the other bedroom wasn’t an option. Not when cleaning up their messes requires access to water.
The kittens have clearly had an eventful day exploring in here. It’s not long before they get tired of me and pile on each other to sleep next to their mama, so I leave them to rest. I’m back in the main living area flipping through channels between sit-ups and push-ups and burpees—never have sat still well—feeling more like myself, more like I can handlebeing babysat, when Delaney lets herself back into the room. I brace for impact, waiting for her to freak out on me over my side hustle since I’m assuming Sabrina would’ve told her how best to manipulate me into behaving, but she doesn’t say a word.
Just leans against the door and looks at me like she’s tired and doesn’t want to be here.
I’m not a sigher. Prefer to spend my time and energy living, having fun, building up everyone around me the way my mom used to build me up instead of grumbling.
But a weighty sigh leaks out of me right now.
“Take the bedroom,” I grunt.
“I don’t mind sleeping on—”
“Take. The fucking. Bedroom.” She has a bigger job than I do this week. Not only is sheinthe wedding, but she has to make sure Chandler isn’t pissed at me for breathing.
That’s a Chandler problem.
Not a me problem.
I know he’s not pissed that I’m breathing. He’s pissed for other reasons.
But no matter why Chandler needs a buffer from me, Emma thinks he does, and Emma thinks Laney’s the person for the job. So Laney should have a real bed.
And that’s why I’m staring down the Tooth’s original Little Miss Perfect and giving up the fight against having a babysitter.
To make my sister happy.
No matter how pissed I am that I went from being my normal happy-go-lucky, mischief-loving self an hour ago to beinga problemwho needs asolutionin the form of Delaney Kingston as my babysitter now.
This is so much like high school I want to check the date on my phone to make sure I haven’t been sucked into a time machine. And I don’t want to talk about what it’s doing to my mental health.
