Chapter 19
Nineteen
Marie
“Meow!”
“Hold on, you demanding little fluff ball,” I mutter as I carefully carry the food dishes across Chrissy’s house and over to the ledge where her surly senior cat named Joan of Freaking Arc (yes, seriously) prefers to eat.
This being because the cat is old and surly…and has seen more rescue animals come through Chrissy’s house than I’ve likely seen in my lifetime.
Jean-Michel’s daughter runs a cat rescue.
His adopted in heart, but not on paper, daughter, Rory, runs a dog rescue.
Together, it’s floof-tastic.
And while Chrissy has several rescue centers and her and Rory both have a team of foster parents and volunteers, every once in a while, I chip in to help with the fluff buckets.
Like when the hockey team that Jean-Michel owns, the Eagles, is on an extended road trip, taking the men, and this time—with me taking care of the pups and surly senior cat—the women too.
I don’t mind.
I’ve got my work—my normal duties along with the material I pulled for Attie.
And I’m out of the hotel room for the next few days, days that should give the contractors enough time to put the final touches on my condo—finish up installing the floor and repainting the baseboards, doors, and walls.
The tile is installed. The vanity is repaired—along with the leak, I’ve been assured.
There’s no avoiding the fact that I’ll be moving home soon.
With Jace and his magnificent dick right down the hall.
I groan, shove that thought out of my head.
I’ll just have to upgrade my vibrator.
Because I’m not going there again. I had my taste, it was glorious, and…now moving back to my regularly scheduled programing.
Plus, Joan and the sweet pups—Athena and Zeus—are good company.
Definitely much simpler company than whatever chaos Angela is orchestrating…and less confusing than my apparent inability to stay away from Jace.
My temple throbs and I shove that thought away.
Lots to do. Lots to distract myself with.
Joan’s food on her perch. Two pups trailing after me as I prepare their meals. Then I’m working on feeding myself—or I start to pull out the ingredients I brought, but then stop and shake my head, a sigh escaping through my exasperated smile.
“Chrissy,” I mutter, pulling out the container that has a sticky note with my name written on it.
I wouldn’t let her pay me when her pet sitter got ill, so she and—I sigh again, shaking my head—Rory also, apparently, came up with an alternate form of payment.
Chicken pot pie.
And a huge, M&M-covered caramel apple.
My stomach rumbles and I pull both—along with a Diet Coke (not because I’m counting calories, but because I like the taste, okay?)—and set them on the counter. Then read the instructions on the note and turn on the oven.
I pop the pot pie onto a cookie sheet and slide it onto the rack (who needs preheating anyway?).
Then I put the puppers out of their misery and make their dinner, watching as they scarf it down in mere seconds before I take them into the back yard and let them do their bathroom business.
When we make it inside again, the timer is ready to go off, so I wash my hands, get a plate out and slice myself a salad, er, cut myself a chunk of the caramel apple.
Po-tay-toe. Po-tah-toe.
And then I’m diving into my food, a pair of pups laying on my legs, their begging eyes locked onto my fork during each and every trip it makes from my plate to my mouth. I don’t cave on the chicken pot pie front, but I do give them an extra cookie after I’ve finished my chunk of candy-covered apple and wash the dishes.
As they chew, I snap some pictures of the critters, send them off to their respective owners, then the pups are in their crates and I’m bedding down in the guest room, a prickly Joan curled up at my feet.
She hisses at me, giving my legs a half-hearted swat as I settle in, but when I wake up, it’s to find her curled against my hip.
I lay there, the sunshine of early morning streaming in through the windows, thinking that maybe I need to give in to all the cuteness that Rory and Chrissy trade in, and adopt a pet. Yeah, I travel a lot, but I could get a small dog, bring it with me like one of those fancy socialites. Or I could befriend a surly senior cat who prefers her solitude, hiring a pet sitter to check in regularly when I’m not home.
Either option would work.
I just don’t know which is best yet.
Anyway, it’d be nice to not be alone every night.
And, since I’m not going to invite a man to share my bed, then it seems like a pet of some sort might be the best option.
Eventually, my cell buzzes, my alarm quietly chiming, and I snap out of my head.
Joan swats and hisses at me again as I climb out of bed, but her claws are sheathed, and I’m feeling the same streak of grumpiness, anyway. I’m liking the lazy morning, don’t want to get out of bed.
Duty calls, though.
And with Jean-Michel gone, I need to hold down the fort.
So, I take care of pups and the senior cat. I make myself a light breakfast and pack the leftover apple and pot pie for my lunch. I do my makeup, put on my office casual, and then I go to work.
But all day long, I can’t shake the feeling that a pet isn’t going to fill the nagging loneliness inside me.
That only one thing can.
And it’s also the one thing that I will never— ever —allow myself to have.