“Sadly, I’m pretty sure it is.” As I think further on it, I start to wonder who the gesture is really for. He probably plans to mention it on the show so he can come off looking all devoted and romantic. It’d be great for his real-life role as America’s favorite heartthrob.
Just tell her no thank you and hang up, Brinley.
A pit settles into my gut. I don’t want to turn down the donation, but Dawson’s phony offer taints the whole thing.
“Let’s put him to the fire,” Marsha blurts before I form the words.
Moonshine and Muffin thunder around the corner and tear into the front room. Muffin prances onto the sofa like a puff of smoke. Moonshine rams into the side with a groan. The cat wobbles back, side-eyeing the sofa, then shakes his head until his ears flick inside out. It’s a creepy look on an already creepy cat.
I replay what Marsha said. Something about putting Dawson to the fire. My face scrunches. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“I tell Dawson that you accept his offer to do the six days. Behind the scenes, we make arrangements for him to attend the awards on night five—either with or without you—but we let Dawson think he’s going to miss them and see if he cracks.
“We could even go so far as to have him board a private jet that afternoon and tell him you two are headed to an overnight excursion, all dressed up of course. If he’s willing to climb that jet and fly out of LA where the award shows are held, we’ll know he means business.”
I sit up and stare at my phone, the wordgeniuscoming to mind. Marsha Langston is a genius. “Really?” I squeak.
“Sure, why not?”
Why not indeed? It’s the perfect setup. I picture Dawson’s face as Emmy night nears, the scarcely hidden fear in his eyes as he realizes I might just call his bluff. It’s priceless.
“Okay,” I say. “If you’re willing to set it up like that…” I pause there, checking to see if I mean what I’m about to say. The adrenaline pushing through me is the good kind. Yes, I want this. I’m dying to see what Dawson does in that scenario. “If you can set it up as you suggested,” I continue, “my answer is yes. I’ll do it.”
“Excellent choice,” Marsha says. “I’ll email the final documents and details. Oh, and Brinley?”
“Yes?”
“For what it’s worth, I think the offer is sincere.”
I laugh a little. The guy’s an actor. A good one at that. “I guess time will tell.”
CHAPTER4
Brinley
I stare at the steam rising from my coffee mug as morning sunlight warms my back. I’m about to see Dawson Cain in the flesh.
In the flesh—I despise terms like that. No human is more important than another. And if they were, it wouldn’t be based on some fabricated level of status or class.
I pause in lifting my mug to my lips and wonder, as I hear an odd scuffle at my back, where Moonshine went. Though the question isn’t spoken aloud, the answer comes at full force—right to the rear. I don’t have to count them to know that exactly ten, sharp claws have deployed into my upper butt region, giving the termin the fleshnew meaning.
“Moonshine,” I screech as I shoot to a stand.
Unfortunately, the action alone isn’t enough to extract his razor-like claws. On sheer instinct, I spin in place, hoping the motion will eject him, but the cat holds firm, swinging with me like a freak fifth extremity.
I jerk a look over my shoulder, the movement intensifying, and shudder at the sight. Moonshine stares at me with all sorts of crazy in his yellow eyes while my kitchen tile spins in a swirl beneath him. It’s an involuntary game ofhelicopter,like when my mom used to hold me by the wrists and swing me around.
I reach back to swat his paws off me, and manage to extract a few of his claws, but not all, which only makes the few that stubbornly remain, sink even deeper.
Inner curses fly through my mindas I seize his bony paws at last and pry the remaining daggers from my flesh. Moonshine hits the kitchen tile with a mangled grunt.
I picture hundreds of blood cells rushing to the ten, tiny wounds as the area pulses and swells. I rub my butt with my palms and suck air through my teeth.
“Ouch,that freaking hurt.” I glare down at him as he backs away, stealthily stuffing himself into the small space beneath my bookcase. His wiry whiskers, which look like someone took a crimping iron to them, protrude from the shadows. I’m mildly aware that all that spinning could have sent him for a very dangerous ride. If this had happened while my mom was here making cupcakes for the auction, Moonshine might have met a Hansel and Gretel fate.
“You’re rotten, you know that?”
The wicked cat lets out an electric hiss. If cats really have nine lives, he’s probably burnt through eight of them.
