He’s got a funny grin on his face, and he nods slowly. “All right, Waffles,” he murmurs with new appreciation.
I shake my head and clamp my lips together to keep from laughing.
Dr. Valentine says she’ll see about a foster home for Fiona and the kittens, and then my mom walks her out.
“I’ll take Waffles to my house,” Gregory offers.
“Really? Your mom won’t mind?”
He laughs. “I didn’t say that. But you sprang a pregnant cat on yours. I figure mine can handle Waffles for a day or two until we figure something else out.”
“We could just take him back to the store,” I say.
“He’d get lonely! I’ll try this first. I guess that can be my last resort if my mom flips.”
I nod, and then we both just sort of look at each other.
“This day was unexpected, huh?” He leans back and stretches his arms above his head, then regards our empty plates. “Will you make me one of those again tomorrow?”
I laugh. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m working tomorrow.”
He looks like I just told him I wiped his entire Spotify account. “Friday?”
I shake my head. “Can’t. I’m busy.”
“Busy with what?”
“That’s none of your beeswax.” Oh God, what? That’s something my dad would say.
Gregory grins. “Do you regret saying that?”
“Yes. Immediately.”
He laughs and stands. “Well, I brought a pregnant cat over, stole one of your shirts, ate your food, and let your mom wash my clothes. I think my work here is done.”
“You’re not stealing that shirt,” I say. “I love it, so you’re giving it back. I’ll bring your other one to the store the next time you’re working.”
“How about a trade? You can keep the one in your washing machine.”
I balk. “Why would I want your shirt?”
He gives me a cocky look. “Most girls would kill to have my clothes.”
I roll my eyes. “Good thing I’m not most girls.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”
Why do those words, and the look in his eyes as he says them, send sparks popping under my skin? Did he or did he not just say I’m his typefor a friend?
I don’t know how, but somehow he extracts Waffles and gets her—wait, no,him; that’s gonna take some getting used to—into his car.
I head back upstairs, and within a few minutes of being in my room, I notice a new photo on my collage wall. I step closer and lean in, and smile.
It’s a selfie of Gregory, printed from my little camera. His face takes up the entire frame. His smile is big and wide, mouth open and white teeth on display like he was laughing while he took it. It’slike his brown eyes are looking right at me, and the tiny bit of hair visible at the top of the photo is sticking up and messy as usual. He attached it to the light string with a clothespin, over the photo that I said makes me sad.
