16. Violet
VIOLET
Later that night, I’m back in the woods behind Sebastian’s house.
I have a problem. An addiction to watching him.
But in my defense, my problem has excellent bone structure and a deep fondness for spreadsheets.
So do I.
In fact, I have an entire binder full of them. And a folder on my laptop with information I’ve gathered on Drew.
I’m nothing if not thorough.
It’s just after sunset when Sebastian and Ivy exit their house.
I wait until their headlights disappear down the road.
Then I move.
The air is cool as I move through the backyard, staying in the shadows.
The deck rises just enough that I have to grip the railing and silently pull myself up. I can’t afford to make any noise.
I land softly and immediately move toward the fake, leafy potted tree off to the side. I slip behind it, crouching low as I peer around the edge.
Mr. Pickles sits at the patio door, his eyes on me.
I glance past him at the living room. Drew is stretched out on the couch, one arm behind his head, his attention fixed on the TV. He’s relaxed. Comfortable. And unaware of my silent interaction with my new buddy.
I shift my gaze back to the furry feline. He’s still watching me. I swear I can almost hear him purring through the patio door.
I lift my hand, pressing my fingertip lightly against the glass.
He lifts his paw and presses it right over my finger.
His purring increases, vibrating faintly through the barrier between us.
My lips curve.
“Mr. Pickles,” Drew calls lazily from the couch. “What are you doing?”
The cat doesn’t move, but I’m already slipping behind the plant, watching through the leaves as Drew shifts, sitting up slightly.
“Leave the damn squirrels alone,” he mutters, already losing interest as he settles back against the couch.
I wait. One breath. Then two.
I’m about to peer around the plant again when I hear Drew’s voice.
“I’m going to go take a shower.” He stands, his feet moving past where I’m hidden. “Behave yourself, Mr. Pickles.”
I peek back out once he’s gone, then whisper to the cat, “I’ll see you later.”
Then I creep to the shrub by his bedroom window and squat down, peering through the glass.
The sound of the shower running hits my ears. Drew is singing along with a classic rock station.
I slap my hand over my mouth. He’s a terrible singer.
Mr. Pickles jumps up on the nightstand, making eye contact with me through the window.
A few minutes later, he pads out, a towel wrapped around his waist. My mouth waters at the sight.
I duck as he comes closer.
His voice floats through the window. “I cut myself with the damn razor,” he tells Mr. Pickles.
I peer through the window, watching as Drew drops a bloody tissue into his trash can.
Mr. Pickles looks at me. I swear he’s gloating.
I love that cat.
“What a crazy day. I still can’t find my blue T-shirt. I know I put it in the hamper, yet when I did laundry, it wasn’t there.”
That’s because I have it. I plan to sleep in it tonight.
He shakes his head, then drops his towel. I shove my hand inside my mouth to keep from moaning.
Yup, skinny men are absolutely packing. Especially Drew.
Research complete.
He opens his drawer and grabs a pair of boxers. His back is to me as he pulls them on. Then he grabs a pair of gray sweatpants and puts them on. I die a little more inside.
I’m so hot, I almost fan myself. Almost.
With one last look around the room, he says, “I’m losing it, Mr. Pickles. I have to be. A shirt doesn’t just disappear.”
Mr. Pickles looks at me again before turning back to Drew.
Drew exits his room, still shirtless.
I press my fingers to the window. “I’ll be back,” I whisper to my furry feline friend. “Take care of Drew.”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
I straighten, moving around the house to the shrubs.
As I move along the shadows, I glance back once more.
The house is dark, with only the soft glow of the TV through the glass. It illuminates Drew, stretched out on the couch once again, unaware I was here.
I commit the moment to memory.
Mr. Pickles is back at the patio door, watching me.
I lift my hand, giving him a small wave, before turning to leave.
I’ve only taken two steps toward the woods when I hear it.
“Ouch—dammit, Mr. Pickles!” Drew screams. “Stop jumping on my junk. That’s a sensitive area!”
I freeze, clapping a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.
When I told Mr. Pickles to take care of Drew, that isn’t what I meant.
Still, my smile lingers as I disappear into the darkness.
Maybe Mr. Pickles wants me to massage Drew’s junk and make it all better.
I snort out a quiet laugh as I head through the woods.
That cat is my spirit animal.