Uh, oh. This isn’t good. There’s no room to budge, and the knob I’m holding is planted firmly below my man business without an inch to spare.
If Brinley walks into the studio and opens this door before I make an appearance, I’ll look like a freakish cat-perv who gets off at the scent of their litter.
On that note, the stench of it smacks me in the face. The fresh air is officially gone. I gulp, shiver, and fight back a gag. Too bad another is on its heels. This time, I can’t fight it off. I gag hard, my body lurching forward enough to make my face hit the door with asmack. I don’t vomit as a result, which I’m exceptionally grateful for—I doubt Kai from season one will ever live that down—but the impact knocks me off balance and sends me flailing.
I have two options: fall backward into the land of buried cat treasure or lean forward as far as the door will let me. I swing myself against the solid wood, only to find that the latch is not engaged like I thought it was.
The door swings wide, and I go with it—a cross between a bull rider and a ballerina whose hand is glued to the crotch-leveling doorknob. It might be only a three-foot drop, but from my precarious position, I may as well be hovering over the Grand Canyon.
Please say Brinley is not in the studio yet.I can’t exactly see since I’m facing the opposite side of the room. At least the studio entrance is behind me, meaning the door has me covered.
With a bit of effort, I force my weight back, bringing the door with me, and morph right back into position. Toes pointed outward—check. Legs bent low and spread wide—check. Hand awkwardly touching my own junk—checkity check check.
I hear the familiar sound of metal on metal as the latch of a door slides closed. It’s official; Brinley is in the studio, folks.
I hold statue still and listen to the rustle beyond the doors.
I have two reasons to hold my breath at this point—the stench and the noise. The slightest exhale could tip Brinley off if she’s already out there like I suspect. Did she step inside in time to see the cat litter door swing itself closed? Possibly.
It’s probably time to do it, but what should I say when I fling open the door—boo?No, that’s lame—what am I, twelve?
Yet just as I contemplate pushing the door open, the knob twists within my palm. My heart drops. I’m too late to resist, so I simply loosen my grip altogether.
When the door flings open wide, light illuminates me from lowered head to pointed toe, including the hollow of my crotch-cuddling hand where the knob used to be. But there’s a bigger problem than that. Turns out the grasp on that door is what held me in place, because suddenly I’m flailing for solid ground.
I finally lift my gaze as I wobble back and, to my horror, catch eyes with Brinley, who looks stunned to the core. Wide eyes, parted lips, dropped jaw.
“Boo?” I squeak.
The swooshing hush of sand echoes within the small space as my butt plunks into the litter box at last. I throw a hand back for support—an act I regret as a grain-covered log squishes between my fingers.
I might not have startled Brinley the way I intended to, but I’d say she looks terrified by what she sees.
Is the prank complete? I’m going to say check.
Did I embarrass the living crap out of myself in the process? Check yeah.
* * *
Brinley
“You enjoying the cookies and milk?” I ask Dawson as he dunks a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie halfway into his glass of milk.
He lifts those big brown eyes to me, pulls a pout with his full lips, and nods timidly like a wounded child. “I knew they’d get me some if I asked.”
I look for hints of a smile, but somehow he manages to keep it at bay. I don’t know if I want to pat and squish his adorable cheeks or smack him upside the head for being so spoiled.
I roll my eyes. “Ofcourse,they’d get them for you. Now do you want to explain what you were doing in my cats’ litter box?”
He shrugs. “Was just trying to scare you.”
I keep my face flat. “You freaked me out. Is that the same thing?”
He shakes his head no. Then stops mid-shake and changes it to nodding instead. “Yes, actually. It is.”
Stop swooning, Brinley. There’s nothing about this that’s attractive.
But I can’t help but grin as I replay the scene I stumbled on when I opened the door. Talk about a compromising position. Caught between falling face forward onto me—or the floor beneath me if I moved in time—and plopping backward into a nasty cat toilet.
