“Are we seriously not going to talk about how terrible their names are?” Landon asked.
“They have good names!” I protested.
“You’ve already shown your understanding of words is flexible,” Landon said. “This just proves it.”
“Why did you choose these particular naming patterns?” Rigel asked.
I turned toward him in surprise as Muffin licked her chops. “What do you mean?”
“The other gloom that commonly follows you is named Whiskers, and I’ve heard you call the other shade that shadows your steps Kevin,” Rigel said.
“Yeah, I gave Whiskers and Muffin the most common cat names I could think of—same with their little friends who usually stay out in the stables, Patches and Fluffy. I thought that might make people think they’re cuter.”
“And the shades?”
“I gave them really bland human names,” I admitted. “I figure calling any creature—even a shade—Larry or Barbra would make them seem less…fierce.”
“It didn’t work,” Landon flatly said.
“Landon,” Rhonda growled. “What have I told you about insulting customers’ animals?”
“You told me I couldn’t tell dog owners that their fluffy purse dogs were runty. You didn’t say anything about deadly—what did you call them? Shades?”
Rhonda shook her head as Steve sat like a perfectly obedient dog, her dark tail swishing across the wood floor. “Go check on the drive through.”
“Happily!” The teenager shuffled off as Rhonda slipped Steve another cookie.
When Muffin screamed like a goblin, Rhonda chuckled and gave the cat another cookie as well.
“Okay, Leila. What’s your choice for today? Your summer usual?”
“Nope, I’m going to go with an iced miel today. The sixteen-ounce, please.”
“You got it!” Rhonda went to wash her hands at the sink as I turned to my deadly hubby.
“A miel is made of espresso and steamed milk, and is flavored with honey and cinnamon,” I explained. “But, here’s the important question. Do you like your drinks sweet, or do you prefer something more bitter?”
Rigel shifted, his eyes flicking from me to the menu written out on chalkboards that were bolted to the walls. “I despise sweet tea.”
“Pretty sure everyone in the south just cried out in a great shared pain at that one, but okay,” I said. “Do you add milk to your tea?”
“Occasionally.”
“Great—Rhonda, can you make a cortado for Rigel?”
“Any flavor shots?”
I glanced at Rigel; he was looking down at Steve, who was sniffing his boots. “I’m going to go with no.”
“Gotcha.”
The chortles and gurgles of the machinery sounded like sweet music to me as Rhonda set about making our drinks.
Muffin purred as she leaned into me while Steve continued her investigation of Rigel’s boots.
“Thanks for coming with me today,” I said.
Rigel shrugged. “It’s been interesting.”
