Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Hattie chuckles. “That is the truth. Too bad about the cutie human being a jerk. Maybe he was just having an off day?”
“Maybe, but he was lobbing an awful lot of nasty names at the poor cat.” Not that it matters. I won’t have to deal with the cat hater for long.
I leave Hattie to finish her essay while I wash away a day of cats, then heat up some dinner. The salad is wilted, but not so bad that it’s inedible. I grab a glass of water and head to the living room, where a TV tray has already been set up for me on the couch next to the chair.
“Perfect timing—the commercials just came on. Tell me all about your day.” Mom lowers the volume, and I have her undivided attention for two full minutes before the show resumes. I give her the CliffsNotes version of my day, omitting Miles, because any time I mention a man who might be in my age range, Mom automatically assumes he’s dateable. And Miles, while nice to look at, does not have the personality to match.
She hmms and says that’s nice in all the right places, then we go back to watching Two and a Half Men as soon as the commercials end. My heart aches when one of my dad’s favorite cheesy jokes comes through the TV, my mom reciting the punch line along with the character, and we both chuckle along with the laugh track.
I eat my dinner, waiting for the next commercial break before I ask about her day. At ten we switch to news, and I work on editing Hattie’s essay while the newscasters impart today’s tragedies. By the time I’m done giving the essay the red pen treatment, it’s after eleven.
I have an early start tomorrow, so I get ready for bed. I wait until I’m snuggled under my covers before I check for new messages. My comforter is a quilt with a cat print on it, obviously.
I’m surprised to find several from Miles.
Miles: Hi Kitty. Sorry this is so late, and I’m sorry again about tackling you. I’m honestly not in the habit of knocking over women with water guns. Real ones maybe. Situationally dependent.
Miles: [Cringe face gif]
Miles: [football tackle gif]
Miles: Maybe too soon for the tackle gif? I can’t unsend that.
Miles: I’ve emailed info about PF’s schedule. My mother wasn’t in the mood to discuss his needs, but I’ve cobbled together what I know, which is not much. I’ll be in touch later this week, and you can always reach me at this number. I hope PF is on his best behavior, but I’m unsure what that looks like, or if tossing trinkets off shelves is his jam. Signing off before this becomes an actual novel. ~ Miles
I lie in bed, frowning as I read the text messages through twice more. The thing about text messages is that I can’t read the tone. He could be apologizing only because he needs my help. I have a rug burn on my cheek.
I’m also irritated by the slightly endearing quality of his messages. But I’m probably reading too much into the apology. If he was a grandpa who tackled me, would I have taken the job? I’m even more irritated by the fact that the answer to that is probably no. I let his pretty veneer influence my decision. And he’s a dog person who doesn’t like cats to boot. We might as well be from different planets.
I move on to my email and read over the one he sent me. He wasn’t kidding about the information being scant. Most of the questions I sent him have the “I don’t know” emoji attached to them. I do not want to find that cute.
What he does know is that Prince Francis loves bacon and cereal marshmallows—so odd—hanging out on a lap, and wet food over dry, and when he’s really mad, apparently he’ll poop in shoes. It’s good information, even if there isn’t a lot of it. I’ll be able to figure out the rest as I go.
I barely resist the urge to send him a cute cat gif in response, which he probably won’t appreciate anyway, and instead go with:
Kitty: Usually when I get tackled, it’s by my neighbor’s giant Saint Bernard. On the upside, at least you didn’t lick my face.
I set my phone on the nightstand and close my eyes. I roll to my right side, then cringe at how sore my elbow is. From being tackled. Ugh, stupid, pretty cat-hating dog lover.
chapter five
KITTY MAGIC
Kitty
Thursday morning I wake up from an incredibly weird dream. In it, I’m dressed in football gear, complete with helmet, and I’m apparently playing defense. I don’t really watch much in the way of sports, apart from the occasional hockey game on TV with my dad when he was still here. What horrifies me is that the football has the face of a cat. And the quarterback for the other team happens to be Miles.