“Ugh,” Blair says. “Yeah, it wouldn’t hurt to check in with Ivan about him. See what he says. I wouldn’t isolate him just yet; I still think he just irritated his nose.” She steps aside as I carry him out of the kitten playroom.
Alvin, our resident tabby cat, lets out a pleased meow when he sees me. He’s perched on the front desk counter and tries to lean into me as I pass him.
“Nuh-uh,” I tell him, pressing Bean closer to my chest. “We don’t know if he’s contagious.”
Piper, who sits behind the desk, sighs. “You don’t know ifwhois contagious, Maeve?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say quickly. “Bean has just been sneezing a lot.”
As if on cue, it happens again, this time in three fits.
“See?” I say, attempting to justify my actions.
Piper and Blair don’t get it. They don’t jump to attention like I do or spring into action at the tiniest sign that something might be wrong with a cat.
Maybe they know more than me—actually, Iknowthey know more than me. They’ve been at this for years and taught me everything they could about helping cats. I’m basically a walking encyclopedia now and could wax poetic about the importance of trapping and releasing feral and community cats. If someone was willing, I’d be happy to explain to them the different types of cat litter and the pros and cons of each material.
So why aren’t we on the same page withthis?
And why does my friend’s irritation with me make me feel so ashamed?
Piper’s face turns sympathetic. “Bean will be okay, Maeve,” she says gently. “But if it makes you feel better, go talk to Ivan.”
I’d rather Piper be annoyed at me than pity me, and I’m left embarrassed as I exit the rescue and enter the vet clinic next door, Bean cradles in my arms.
The familiar feeling of being misunderstood hangs over my head.
But then Bean sneezes again, validating my worries.
“Alright, alright,” I murmur, petting his head gently. Even through his sneezes, he’s still a purr machine, which is a good sign.
I came to the clinic at the right time. There are only two people at the reception area, and I shoot a look at Ramona, our receptionist. I mouth “Ivan” to her, and she gives me a wicked grin and a thumbs up.
It’s possible thateveryoneknows that I sort of have a crush on Ivan.
But I’m here for a sneezing cat, so sick feline first, crush on the super cute Alpha second.
How could I not like him, though? Even in the reception area, I catch a whiff of his Alpha scent—crisp apples and caramel.
I have never, ever scented another Alpha like that. Most of them smell plain to me, like subtle fresh linen, or a little too strong, like patchouli and chili peppers. Some of them I wrinkle my nose at, and others, I could care less about.
But not Ivan.
He’s summer and safety.
He’s a cute first date at a carnival, the freshness of a green apple and the sweetness of rich, delicious caramel.
He smells like happiness to me, and my inner Omega agrees.
I don’t hide my feelings for him well, and everyone knows it, including him. He blushes when he sees me, finds any and all reasons to talk to me, and smiles a little too much when I’m around.
And there’s a secret, small part of me that hopes for the near impossible—a scent match.
The rare impossible that his scent was made for me, and only me. That biology and fate somehow combined together to create a connection that neither of us could break.
But it hasn’t happened yet, despite being around him almost every day, regardless of what my inner Omegathinkscould happen.
It would be so lovely though, to be matched to him?—
