“I don’t think she feels good,” I agree.
His concerned gaze meets mine. “What should we do?”
I bite my lip, thinking for a minute. “We could take her to my house. There was some plumbing work at the gallery today, so my mom’s home. She’ll know if we should take her to the vet or not.”
Gregory nods. “Okay. Should we load them up in my car?”
“Them?”
“Well, yeah. I don’t want to separate them.”
“Right. We’ll just take the whole box, then?”
He stands. “I’ll pull my car around.”
He takes off at a jog toward the parking lot. I consider sending my mom a warning text of what we’re bringing home, but decide against it. She might tell me not to.
An older model Toyota Camry appears, and Gregory pulls up as close as he can get, just on the other side of the picnic table. I pour out the water and grab both bowls, the other one still full of food.
“I have a dog,” I say as he squats and gingerly picks up the box, trying to keep it level with both felines still inside. “So we’ll have to keep them in the garage.”
Gregory nods. Long cords of muscle flex along his forearms as he carries the box, and I blink, wondering why I’m just now noticing this. I sort of just filed him in my brain as tall and skinny and didn’t really pay enough attention to think about Gregory having muscles.
It’s also critical to acknowledge that said muscles are being used to carry a makeshift bed—thathemade—for two scruffy stray cats that he’s been taking care of and is worried about.
Gregory McLoughlin is full of surprises.
I open the rear door, and he places the box on the seat. I hear a rustling sound and a muffled “Oh!” and Gregory steps back with Fiona clinging to his shirt.
He’s wincing. “Easy with the claws,” he says to her. Then he looks up at me. “As soon as I put the box down, she climbed up here.”
“Aw,” I say. “Poor thing. I think she’s scared.”
He leans back inside the car and attempts to detach her, but she’s not having it. Now she’s mewling like a banshee. I hold my hands up, not knowing how to help.
“Can you drive?” he asks, straightening again. He’s supporting the cat with his arms. “She doesn’t want me to put her down.”
“Sure.”
The car’s still on, so I slide into the driver’s seat, and he settles beside me, Fiona clinging to him. I reach over and gently scratch her ears the way I know she likes, then drive us to my house.
I know that my mom’s Ford is in the garage, but there’s a pretty spacious area against the back wall. I park Gregory’s car as close as I can and get out to tap the code to open the overhead garage door. Gregory’s hands are still full of Fiona, so I handle getting the box and Waffles (which, thankfully, isn’t as heavy as I expected) and find the perfect spot for it. I leave Gregory trying to coax Fiona back into the box and shut the garage door behind us. The last thing we need is for either cat to dart off somewhere in my neighborhood.
Gregory finally gets Fiona settled, but now he’s holding his shirt away from his body, frowning.
“I think she threw up on me,” he says, tilting his head away from his chest.
I wrinkle my nose. “Looks like it.”
“Is this what it feels like to be a parent?” he asks. “Being completely grossed out but also super worried when something’s wrong with it?”
“Probably,” I say. “But I don’t think you’re supposed to call your child an ‘it.’ ”
He waves a hand like this doesn’t matter.
“I probably have another shirt you can wear,” I offer. “If you want to change. Or wash that.”
“Yeah?”
