I yank open the double-wide fridge door and stare blankly at the shelves of water bottles. They’re not plastic like the ones you see in the average home or store shelf. They’re full-on glass with brass lids and some posh-looking symbol etched into the side. I found the bottles charming yesterday, but right now, they’re irritating.
Sure, we need to eliminate plastic and all that. I do my part with a reusable bottle of my own. But do we have to strut around with fancy-looking, I’m-better-than-you bottles with polished, brass lids?
“You’re just going to ignore my question?” Dawson challenges as I slam the fridge closed.
“Yep.” Honestly, I can’t even remember his stupid question. All I know is that he’s pushing my buttons and he knows it. I don’t want to be near him right now. Good thing I have the cat den; Dawson won’t follow me in there.
With a fancy (not to mention slippery) glass bottle in hand, I head through the arched entryway and into the cat den where I plunk myself right onto the bean bag moonshine was playing on moments ago.
I’m glad Dawson fell into the litter box. He deserved it. I allow myself to replay the hilarious scene in my mind once more, taking my time to recall the odd sounds that drew me to the closed door in the first place. He was probably grinning so wide in there while he waited for me to come. Thinking he was going to prank me.
I chuckle under my breath, then take a drink of cold, refreshing water, resolved to stay in here as long as I need. I assume Dawson is either glaring at me from the main living space or wandering around the house to cool off.
I don’t care what he’s doing as long as he stays away from me.
Muffin leaps gracefully from the floor to my lap, paws her way back and forth across my thighs, and fluffs her tail in my face.
“Hi there, Muffin,” I coo, smoothing a hand over her back. The motion of petting my sweet cat calms me some. I sigh, allowing our special connection to distract me. “Thanks for coming to see me,” I say.
Moonshine tears from one corner of the room and barrels over my feet where they barely touch the ground. He ping-pongs his way around the space, his claws snagging on each carpeted surface as he darts every which way. I smile.
“Hi Moonshine,” I say, appreciating his wild side. He’s not about to conform. He is who he is and makes no apologies.
I twist off the lid to my water, take a few more gulps of the icy refreshment, and roll my shoulders back. I summon the moment Dawson falls backward into the grody cat box once more. I picture the horror in his eyes once he realized there was a log of litter-covered crap gushing between his fingers.
The memory is more alive than I realize; it causes me to catch a whiff of it myself. Right now. Here in this beanbag.
I lift my nose and sniff. Yeah, I can definitely smell something bad. Moonshine barrels across my feet once more, and that’s when a memory jumps to my mind. The time I had to get rid of my own big, cushy bean bag. Because a cat whose name rhymes with doom-linemistook the sandy insides for his litter box and went potty all over it.
That must be what that warm spot is. It feels exceptionally warm in one little spot under the left side of my butt.
The horror of this moment is magnified as I realize that Dawson is here to witness it. I freeze and stifle a groan. Stepping on my rug after Moonshine took a dump under it—that was bad. Very bad.
But plopping into a pile of what smells like number oneandtwo…getting it all over my clothes while Dawson of all people witnesses it? Horrific. The worst.
I glance into the living space from my position on the bean bag but come up empty.Please say he didn’t go upstairs.That’s where all my clothes are.
Somehow, some way, I’vegotto get out of these clothes before Dawson can see me. If I’m good, maybe I can keep the viewers at home from seeing it too.
At that moment, an idea comes to mind. I nod as I play it out in my head. It just might work. I may have questioned my acting ability mere moments ago, but Iwillsummon what it takes to pull this off. My dignity depends on it.
CHAPTER12
Dawson
Of all the infuriating women in this world.
I pace the loft area beside the hard-as-a-rock cot I slept on last night, my irritation revving jet engine hot. I’ve played opposite some complicated characters in my career. I’m talking paralyzing baggage from toxic pasts.
In the romance roles I’ve played, there’s always a happily ever after waiting around the bend. Sure, the leads have their weaknesses to conquer to achieve it, but it’s all part of the story. The trouble is, we don’t have a script for this one. Well, not outside of the zombie-slaying cheerleader. Which, by the way, is shining light on an issue I didn’t realize was there.
Brinley thinks the character’s role is weak because she needs a man to remain human? She doesn’t like that Libby’s chance for survival beyond that increases ten-fold if she keeps Nick around? Heaven forbid. Forget the fact that this Libby character chainsaws her way through zombies while they gnash their flesh-tearing teeth at her.
I figured she’d find it challenging to slice through air-zombies that no one else can see. Or to run from a slew of them as they chase her through an abandoned campus while horror music builds for the audience.
But no. What Brinley struggles with most is the fact that Libby wants Nick. That she’d go to extreme lengths to know if the guy is who he says he is. That she cares so much. It’s absurd.
“Hey, Dawson?”
