Betting on the Brainiac: a Sweet Romantic Comedy

13. Chapter Thirteen

I am smitten by a kitten.

Four kittens.

And the mama cat, even, and the way she cares for them, both fierce and sweet.

I pull into Gatsby’s an hour earlier than usual, but Oliver has still beaten me.

It was so hard to send him home with those kittens yesterday. After we’d settled the mama and babies down, he’d relocated his desk to the main level to “help,” but that mostly seemed to mean “hold the kittens,” which is also my favorite way to help.

After our research, I’d ordered a grocery delivery that included a pet crate, food scale, and the cat food with the highest rating.

When it all showed up a couple hours later, the babies were nursing again, but when they finished, Oliver helped me weigh them. We googled some charts and decided they were probably about two days old, but we’d be able to tell better when we weighed them again today. We both recorded their weights on our phones so we can compare.

I’d sat on the floor the rest of the afternoon, answering emails from vendors and bottle girls about deliveries and shifts for Friday, while alternating kittens in my lap. Turns out, kittens can make even a pretty good work environment one hundred percent better.

When Oliver was done for the day, I’d hovered while he transferred the babies into the crate, and refrained no less than four different times from throwing myself in his path to either keep him from leaving with them or begging him to take me with them.

Ultimately, I settled on extracting a promise that he would text me regular updates until midnight.

That’s how I know when I walk in, I will see some well-fed, well-rested kitties. According to him, they’d eaten well all evening.

I’m in such a rush to get in and see the kittens that I fumble the security code twice, and I have to force myself to take deep breaths and slow down so I don’t lock myself out of the system.

I rush in and fling my bag in the direction of the office, not even slowing before I hit the main club floor. I skid to a stop when I catch sight of the cat carrier sitting in front of the nearest booth, the door open. Oliver’s work bag is on the bench, but there’s no Oliver.

A peek reveals four sleeping kittens, and I’m crouched there, debating whether to pet them and risk waking them, when I hear a loud curse come from the kitchen pantry.

“Oliver?” I hop up and hurry in that direction. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Stay there!” he calls.

No chance. I cross the kitchen to the stockroom. “What’s going on? Is Tabitha with you?”

“What? Wait, stay there. We have a situation.”

The gray mama cat saunters out from a shadow and brushes against my leg on the way out.

“All the cats look fine,” I say.

“They are. But this mouse, not so much.”

I squeak and jump back. I do not want to be That Girl, the one who squeals and acts helpless when confronted with things that scurry. But I am. The idea of small critters with naked tails and weird hairless paws is revolting. I don’t know what deep primitive instinct tells me to be totally grossed out at them, but I’m going to trust that my biology is smarter than me on this one; rodents aren’t to be trusted.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s dead. The mama cat killed it and dropped it in front of me. I think it means thank you.”

The image of that sweet mama cat killing anything, even a dirt-colored rodent with a naked tail, makes me queasy.

Oliver glances over his shoulder at me. “It’s okay, Madison. I’ll take care of it if you want to go call an exterminator to make sure you don’t have a rodent problem in here.”

Suddenly my skin itches, and the fine hairs on my nape bristle. I’ve never seen a mouse—or even droppings—in Gatsby’s, but now I sense them lurking everywhere, watching me through vents.

“I’ll do that.” I back out and do my own scurrying to the cat carrier, where Tabitha has climbed in and settled down for her kittens to feed.

A minute or two later, I hear Oliver open the back door and then there’s a long pause before he reenters. He stops in the employee restroom and walks out on the floor a couple of minutes later, drying his hands on his jeans.

“Did you call that cat Tabitha?” he asks when he reaches us.

“Yeah. I looked it up last night, and striped cats like this are called tabby cats. She’s clearly a lady, so a fancy name fits.” I scrunch my nose at her. “A murderous lady.”

“I don’t want to freak you out, but Tabitha is probably going to be a serial killer.”

“More dead thank yous?”

“If you’re lucky. Maybe prepare yourself for if they’re . . . not dead.”

I press my hand to my stomach. “Great. Something to look forward to.”

He laughs. “It’s grim, I’m not going to argue. But maybe if you think of it as a tribute it will help?”

“I’ll try.” I nod at the kittens. “Looks like they’re still doing well.”

He slides into the booth and catches me up on how they did overnight, and I stop him with a hand on his knee since I’m still kneeling in front of the kittens.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “You didn’t have to do any of that—wake up with them all night, even help me with them yesterday. That was awesome of you.”

He gives me a slightly awkward smile and colors along his cheekbones. It’s pretty cute. I hadn’t paid much attention to him after assessing him that first day, but with some finessing, he has potential. His hair looks clean, probably because there’s no product in it, and it falls on his forehead without any clear style. It’s too long over his collar and ears too. It’s in that in-between stage where it’s both too long and too short. Maybe he’s forgotten to do anything besides brushing it in the last few months?

He”s always in baggy hoodies, which makes sense, considering that a lot of Austin summer weather is spent in frigid air conditioning. But the hoodies emphasize his scrawniness. He’s picked the wrong style for his build. Same with his glasses—plain black plastic frames, more round than square, and too big. I have a theory a person can rock any haircut, style, or accessory if it’s an intentional choice and they wear it with confidence. But Oliver doesn’t look like he’s thought about any of it. Except his shoes.

He’s got a pretty regular rotation of high-end Nike sneakers. Today it’s the latest Travis Scott collab. It makes me think when he’s not on a killer deadline, he might have a surprising closet. But he’s in whatever guys call their messy bun era, and I get it.

A long silence has fallen between us. “So anyway, they seem like they’re eating fine?”

He nods. “We’ll know for sure when we weigh them this afternoon, but they’re healthy.”

“So now what?”

“It’s your call. I can take them back to my place again tonight.”

“No way. I’ve been feeling guilty since we left yesterday.”

“I don’t mind. I won’t have to get up with them tonight. I can’t do it indefinitely, but I can do it until we can find a rescue for them.”

“You are possibly the biggest sweetheart in the world, but still no. It’s probably not good for them to go back and forth like that anyway. Are they stable enough to stay here for a few days? If it’s only going to be us, I mean? It would give us time to find a good situation for them.”

He smiles at me, and it’s gentle with a touch of knowing. “Are you stalling so you get more kitten time?”

I duck my head to look at the floofs. The tuxedo one is squirming, done nursing but not ready to nap. I scoop him out and nestle him against my chest. “With these wiggle bums? Don’t be ridiculous.” Then I brush the tip of my nose against his black head, and he gives a tiny kitten sigh and settles down to fall asleep.

“Right. That would be crazy talk. Also, are you sure that’s a boy?”

“Yes.”

He tilts his head. “How?”

“Intuition.”

“Ah. I thought maybe you checked the goods.”

I look down at my kitten. “If you want to be all logical about it.” I gently maneuver it for a clear view. I blink and look up at Oliver. “If I don’t see anything, does that mean it’s a girl?”

“Probably.”

There’s something odd about his voice. It sounds sort of . . . hmm. And his face looks weird too. I squint, trying to pin it down, and then I get it. “Oliver?”

“Hmm?”

Yeah, that is a guy who is working very hard not to lose it. “Are you biting back a whole bunch of inappropriate jokes?”

He freezes, then nods.

“If you talk right now, are you going to start laughing and not be able to stop?”

Another rapid nod, with the corners of his mouth upturned and his face turning red.

“I’m going to give you one hundred billion bonus points for not making them, but you need to breathe. How about if you go ahead and laugh, and I won’t judge you for it?”

The first laugh rolls out of him on a hard gust of pent-up breath, and then he keeps going. He laughs until he’s holding his side, and every time he starts to wind down, he catches my eye and starts back up again.

It takes him a full two minutes to settle down, but I don’t mind. I like that he had enough class to keep the jokes to himself. Gross dudes make innuendos every time I’m on shift. Liquor always makes them think they’re smooth, but no. Definitely not. They give off strong ick.

When Oliver finally draws a steady breath, I raise an eyebrow at him. “All done?”

He grins. “Yes.”

“Good. Now you can research how we figure out our girl and boy count.”

He sighs but tugs his laptop toward him and types so fast I’m not sure the sound of the key strikes keeps up with the speed of his fingers.

He clears his throat. “We probably better let the vet figure it out.”

“It’s that har—uh, complicated?”

He presses his lips together, clearly swallowing another laugh. “Yes.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “The term ‘palpate’ is used several times.”

I tuck my floof back against my chest. “Definitely the vet. I’ll take over kitty logistics today, and you can go back to your upstairs spot. I’ve got this.”

He leans forward, arm resting on the tabletop, and meets my eyes. “Madison, I’m glad I got to help with Operation Kitty Rescue, so thanks for letting me.”

His simple sincerity surprises me. His eyes are hazel with a wide gold band at the center that shifts to a darker color at the edges. A brownish green, which sounds like pond scum, but it’s pretty.

“You’re welcome.” I frown. “Wait, I should be thanking you.”

“How about if we agree that we did what decent people would do and call it good?”

I tilt my head, studying him closer. He doesn’t fidget, but his eyebrows dip slightly, an unspoken question, maybe asking what I’m looking for. I don’t know. Guile? Motive? The moment he’ll turn this into a chance to flirt? It happens more than it doesn’t.

None of that is in his expression. I’m going to make this weird if I keep staring even a second longer, so I break off the eye contact to brush a finger over Tuxie’s soft head. “Deal. Good for us for being decent.”

“We should definitely always celebrate doing the bare minimum.”

I give him another smile. “We need bumper stickers for that. Start a movement.”

“I sign away all creative rights,” he says as he straightens. “Go for it. I’ll get back to work, but will it bother you if I stay down here?”

“Because you love the kittens now?” I tease him.

“I’m not afraid to admit it.”

“Won’t bother me at all, but I’m going to move them closer to the office so I can keep an eye on them while I perform my duties as the new head of the Floof Foster Federation.”

“I’ll do it.” He slides out to close the carrier door before offering to help me up.

I’m pretty light, but he still pulls me to my feet without any effort. He waits for me to take the lead and follows me to the office.

“Inside the office or in the hall?” he asks as Tabitha gives an irritated meow.

“Inside,” I say.

He sets the carrier in the corner, where it juts a few inches past the doorway. “Is it okay right here? I could put it against the back wall, but I don’t want to get in your way if I come to do official observations and safety checks.”

I smirk at him. “Right there is fine, and you can pet them whenever you want. It won’t bother me.”

“Cool.” He crouches to open the carrier door again and reaches in slowly. Tabitha allows him to pet her.

“Oliver?”

“Yes, Madison?”

“I think you like Tabitha the best of all of them.”

“Just being a decent human.” But his half smile tells me I’m onto him.

He heads back to his desk, and I settle into mine to become an official Cat Lady and Rescue Diva.

The transformation takes about two hours, several Google searches, even more calls, and a cuddle with every kitten. Fine, two cuddles. Each. But at the end of those two hours, as a single woman who currently possesses five cats and a whole lot of information about what to do with them next, I’m definitely a Cat Lady.

Every time Oliver comes to pet the cats, he makes up a reason he’s there. First, he was “stretching his legs.” Then he was doing code enforcement on the acoustic ceiling tiles. By the time he shows up to inspect my Post-its for stickiness, I have some answers.

“The rescues around here are full, but I found one that will work on finding some fosters.” I explain everything I’ve learned, but the upshot is that it would be best if we could keep them until they secure a foster, which will take at least a few days and possibly up to a week.

“I’ll take them back to my apartment on Thursday before it gets busy here.”

I appreciate the offer, but his expression is half-distracted, and I get the sense that he’s already thinking through how that will complicate his weekend. “How about if we make that a backup plan and wait and see if any of the rescues come through?”

“Good idea.”

“Cool. Then it’s time to weigh the kittens. Want to help?”

He shrugs. “Cuddling kittens is unmanly, but I’ll do it if you need me to.”

“You can make grunting noises and drop pointless F-bombs if that will help you with the manliness.”

“I don’t like those things. Any other ideas?”

“Maybe puff up your chest like you just did a bunch of bench presses while you hold them?”

He pops his chest out, not that it makes much of a difference in his hoodie. “This will be manly enough.”

“You don’t have to cuddle the kittens. You can hold the scale while I weigh them.”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s manly to handle wild animals.”

We both look down at the napping kittens and Tabitha’s lazily twitching tail.

“Scary,” I say.

Face grim, he nods. “Don’t worry, I got this.”

When they all weigh around a half ounce heavier, we high-five.

“We’re heroes. We need capes,” I tell him.

“Can I have a badge instead?”

“More manly?”

“Obviously.”

“Fine. You can have a badge.”

He tucks one of the tabbies against his chest and strokes its tiny ear with his thumb. “I’m invested in projecting tough manliness at all times.”

I smile and glance at the time on my phone. I’m due at the store to do some bookkeeping. “I need to run. You okay if I take off? You’re not going to try to take the kittens home again?”

“Will I get another badge if I do?”

“You’ll get another badge if you don’t.”

He stands and gently moves the carrier to the hall. “I’ll do it for the badge. And also because Miss Tabitha seems to have the situation handled.”

“Cool. I’ll get you something cool at the badge store.”

“Bruh, I love the badge store.”

His delivery is so earnest that it sends me to my car laughing.

Wednesday doesn’t bring any word from any of the rescues, but Tabitha and fam seem fine after their night alone. I do get several visits from Oliver to do everything from “check the hinges on that cabinet for squeaking” to investigating the thumbtacks on the office bulletin board “for pointiness.” The kittens are up a full ounce in weight from the first day, and when I confess to Oliver I don’t have any badges, he heaves a dramatic sigh and goes back to his laptop.

I take a few minutes to scavenge through the office and storage spaces before I bring him a consolation prize of two Stella Artois beer koozies. “Please accept my apology for not going to the badge store.”

“Madison. Babe. Stella isn’t manly.”

I almost lose it when he says “babe” like he’s a seedy Las Vegas bookie. “Wristbands are manly. NFL players wear them. They’re extra manly if you rip stuff to make them. How about if you tear out the bottoms of these koozies and then wear them like wristbands?”

His mouth twitches. He almost breaks. But he says, “That would be pretty manly.” Then he takes a koozie and attempts to tear it, but it turns out that the nylon sleeves aren’t that easy to tear by hand.

He flings it back on the table. “I’m going to get my pocketknife from my car because cutting these with a knife is even more manly.”

“I was going to say that.”

He slides out from the booth and heads to the exit. Tabitha follows him when he passes the office, and when he opens the rear door, she slips out.

“Tabitha!” I call, but since she doesn’t know that’s her name, she doesn’t pause.

“She’ll come back,” Oliver says. “Do you care if I leave the back door cracked open for her?”

“No, that’s fine.” I know he’s right, but I’m already anxious, wondering how long it’s going to take her to return. “If anyone comes to steal our top-shelf liquor, I’ll stop them with a withering stare.”

A few minutes later, Oliver stops by my office to show me his new Stella wristbands. He rotates his hands. “Feel like these are going to make me work even faster.”

“Good. That was my plan.”

Tabitha comes back about an hour later to drop a decapitated bird in the office doorway before returning to the crate and the kittens.

“Oliver?” I feel a touch pukey. “Tabitha is back.”

I hear him walk down the hallway and pause. “Gross.”

Bird disposal involves kitchen gloves and a dustpan, but the rest of the day goes quietly except for Oliver’s visits to “check the tile patterns” on the office floor and “test the dry erase markers” to make sure they’re still inky.

Oliver gets a ton of cuddles out of those kittens. And a ton of smiles out of me.

I like that guy. He’s funny.