I theatrically toss my hair over my shoulder. “That’s because I am.”
“Clearly she hasn’t spent enough time with you.”
I punch his shoulder, and he feigns shock, rubbing it.
“How was work for you today?” I ask. “Of note, my dad hasnotsaid you’re a delight.”
Gregory stops and stares at me. I was just teasing, like we do—but obviously something about this didn’t hit right. I immediately try to fix it.
“But that’s just because he’d never call anyone that. He did say you’re a hard worker, and he’s glad he hired you.”
Relief passes over his features. “Oh. Good. I want him to think I’m doing a good job.” He grips the back of his neck for a second. “I, uh, I like your dad. He’s a cool boss.”
I’m not surprised, because my dad’s a great person to work for. He takes work seriously but not too much. He’s fair and understands that life happens sometimes, and never asks anyone to do something he wouldn’t do himself. Last week when Phoebe couldn’t work because her grandma had fallen and had to go to the hospital, my dad took the shift as a bag boy for several hours. He’s also lighthearted and funny, and always smiling.
I like that Gregory likes him.
Fiona and Waffles are in the box when we approach the alcove. Their food and water bowls are low, so we each grab one and take them back inside for refills. Usually when we do this, Fiona’s waiting for us to bring her a fresh meal by the wall, but when we come back outside, she’s still curled up next to Waffles.
Gregory frowns.
“That’s weird,” I say.
He crouches down to peer inside. “Hey, Fiona baby.”
My breath catches at the warm, smooth way he croons to her. It’s soft and gentle and sweet—starkly different from the way he usually speaks to me, which is filled with sarcasm or over-the-top flirtation.
He’s talking to a cat, Amelia. I internally shake myself out of it.
He reaches inside and pets her for a moment. He looks over his shoulder at me, brow still furrowed.
“Is she okay?” I ask, worried now.
“I’m not sure.” He pulls his arm back and scoots sideways to make room.
I kneel beside him, and for us both to see into the box I basically have to press my shoulder up against his. A whiff of pine comes my way again, like at the restaurant.
I don’t know anything about cats, but I definitely know—especially from what just happened with Margarine—that appetite changes aren’t a good sign.
Being antisocial is normal for Waffles—even though we’re (well, Gregory is) making progress—but Fiona’s a real attention seeker. She likes to curl around ankles, rub up against calves, andlean her head into our hands for ear rubs. She usually goes for a healthy serving of food right when it’s fresh, then leaves the rest for Waffles, who I assume picks at it after we leave.
Today Fiona doesn’t seem interested in anything. Not even a belly rub. She lifts her head to regard us from the back corner of the box but doesn’t move otherwise.
“I’ll go get a treat,” Gregory says. “See if she wants that.”
I reach in and lightly stroke her back while he’s gone. Waffles watches me warily. Believe it or not, that’s an improvement. Two weeks ago she was still darting out of the box and into the shadows if I so much as put my index finger inside.
Gregory returns with several treats and sticks his hand back into the box.
“Waffles, no,” he scolds. “These aren’t for you. Waffles!” He reaches in with his other arm to hold Waffles back. Jeez, Gregory must be some sort of animal whisperer. I don’t think she’d tolerate me handling her like that.
With three of our arms in here, it’s a tight fit. I could pull mine out to make more room for Gregory and his attempts to get Fiona’s attention, but I don’t hate the way his warm skin feels up against mine.
After one more exasperated “Dammit, Waffles!” I hide a smile in my shoulder. “You’ve spoiled her. She knows you always bring her treats.”
He sighs like he’s annoyed with himself.
Finally he gives up and lets Waffles have the treats. “I think something’s wrong with Fiona.”
