Chapter 19
M arcus
“This does not mean I’m moving in with you,” Emma emphasizes for the fifth time as we approach her doorstep. “I’m just going to sleep over at your place tonight .”
“Right. With your cats.” I keep my voice even and soothing. No need to spook her by gloating over this win. “Just as a trial run.”
“ Not a trial run. One night only—and only because you have that early-morning meeting and can’t stay over at my place tonight.”
“Of course. Whatever you say.” I give her the most innocent smile I can muster. “Just don’t forget their litter boxes, food, and anything else they need.”
She casts a glare at me. “Obviously. Be prepared, though: they’re going to wreak havoc on your place. Mr. Puffs especially.”
“I don’t mind.” That’s a lie—I’m not looking forward to having animals running around my meticulously clean apartment—but Emma will latch on to any sign of hesitation on my part, and I’m not about to let her use her pets to stall this.
If I want her at my place, I have to put up with the furry beasts. I come with money, she comes with cats—that’s the deal.
We both have to compromise.
“Okay, fine. But it’s your funeral,” she mutters, unlocking her door. “Or rather, your fancy things’ funeral.”
I don’t have a chance to respond because the moment the door swings open, Emma is mobbed by her cats.
Meowing loudly, three fluffy white Persians attack her like she’s their favorite meal.
One climbs up her jeans, Ninja-style, while the other two do infinity loops between her legs in a synchronized attempt to trip her.
If it were me, I’d be running for the hills, but Emma looks incandescently happy.
Grinning hugely, she uses one arm to hug the cat that’s using her body as a tree pole—it’s the medium-sized one, Cottonball—and simultaneously bends to pet the other two.
The small, dainty one—Queen Elizabeth—immediately starts purring, while the giant one—the incongruously named Mr. Puffs—hisses at her, green eyes slitted, and swats her hand with a furry paw.
“Oh, don’t be mad, Puffs,” she coos, bravely reaching for him again. “I’m sorry I left you for so long, I really am, but everything’s okay now. Mama’s back.”
The evil creature hisses at her again, but keeps his claws sheathed this time, magnanimously letting her scratch the top of his head and underneath his chin.
Finally, all three cats are pacified and back on the floor, and Emma is able to advance deeper into her tiny apartment despite the tripping hazard her pets represent. I walk in after her, wheeling her suitcase, and survey the rundown place.
It’s just as I recalled. Pretty much everything in here is junk, with the possible exception of the floor-to-ceiling cat maze that decorates one wall. I’ll have to make space for it, or something like it, in my penthouse, once Emma gives the green light for the movers to do their thing.
Hopefully, the cats will be okay without the maze for however long this trial run lasts—and it is a trial run, no matter what she says.
The cats wouldn’t be coming with her otherwise.
It was surprisingly easy to convince her to stay with me tonight—once I suggested the furry beasts accompany her, that is.
Before that, it was battle royal, with her completely refusing to see reason.
To me, it’s beyond simple: if she’s okay with staying in a hotel I’ve booked, then she should be fine staying at my place.
Permanently. Starting with tonight. But Emma doesn’t see it that way.
To her, moving in together is a big deal, and she refuses to take that step so soon.
It’s frustrating, but I’ll take what victories I can get, starting with convincing her to spend the night in my home.
The cats were initially an obstacle to that—she didn’t want to leave them alone after being away for so long—but a smart man knows how to take hurdles and use them to leapfrog toward his goal.
Hence, my idea of telling her to bring the cats with her.
To have Emma, I’d put up with a horde of demons camping out at my place—which, for all I know, the cats might be.
Of course, early-morning meeting or not, I could’ve stayed with Emma at her place, but that wouldn’t have gotten me any closer to having her move in with me. And frankly, I’m not too keen to spend another night on her narrow, lumpy bed.
Call me spoiled, but I much prefer my comfortable king-sized mattress.
“All right, guys, let’s get you fed before we go,” Emma says, entering her tiny kitchen, and I watch as she opens cans of cat food and puts each one on a separate plate. I take note of which cat gets which brand/flavor, in case I ever have to do this, and then I focus on what I came here for.
Getting Emma packed and ready to go home with me tonight.
I start by unzipping her suitcase and taking out all the clothes she brought to Florida.
She’s worn them all, so they go into a laundry hamper.
Then I sort through what remains in the suitcase: her toiletries, flip-flops, laptop, and an ancient, beat-up Kindle.
She’ll need all of that at my place, so I repack it neatly and walk over to her closet to see what else to take.
“What are you doing?” she asks, coming up next to me as I take out three raggedy sweaters, two pairs of jeans, and a few of her better-looking tops. I’d give my left thumb to be allowed to buy her nicer clothes, but that’s not part of the deal we made.
Not yet, at least.
“I’m helping you pack,” I say, returning to the suitcase. Going down on one knee, I place the clothes on the suitcase top and begin to fold them. “You might want to grab some underwear, socks, pajamas, and anything else along those lines.”
There’s dead silence in response, and when I look up, I find Emma watching me with a narrowed stare. “That’s more than one night’s worth of clothes.” Her tone is dangerously even. “And I don’t need instructions on what to bring.”
Sensing a new battle, I rise to my feet. “I didn’t say you needed instructions. As to the quantity of clothes, why not bring more than you need? Just in case.”
“Because.” She crosses her arms over her chest, her pretty face set in stubborn lines.
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for an elaboration, but none comes my way. What does come my way is her cat. Specifically, the big one, Mr. Puffs.
Green eyes narrowed in perfect imitation of his owner’s expression, he stalks toward me, fluffy tail raised high.
“Puffs!” Emma grabs for him, but he deftly avoids her, determined to reach his goal—which is not me but the suitcase.
Jumping in, he stretches out on top of the partially folded clothes and looks up at me smugly. “That’s right,” his flat, furry face tells me. “You might fuck her, but I just marked my territory with white cat hair—and I have lots of it. Way more than you.”
“Ugh, Puffs, what have you done? Now your hair’s all over the place,” Emma groans, reaching into the suitcase to get the cat out. “Here, let’s get you into your carrier before you cause more trouble.”
She carries the beast away, and I swiftly fold the rest of the clothes, brushing off the cat hair as much as I can—which is very little. The white strands must have suckers on them, or superglue, because they cling to Emma’s clothes as tightly as if they’d been painted on.
By the time I’m done, Mr. Puffs is safely ensconced in a stiff, square bag with mesh sides that looks barely large enough to accommodate his furry body. Glaring at me through the front mesh, he attempts to swish his tail, but there’s no room and he meows threateningly instead.
“It’s okay, baby,” Emma coos, patting the side of the bag as she carries it toward the door. “We’re just going on a little overnight adventure. I’m not taking you to the vet, I promise.”
“Here, let me.” I take the carrier from her, since it looks heavy. But it’s lighter than I expected. I guess part of the cat’s size is all that fluffy fur. Ignoring his outraged yowling at the transfer, I ask, “Do you want me to take him out to the car?”
“Not yet. He’ll worry if he’s all alone there. Just set him down here.” She indicates a spot by the door. “If you’d like to help, maybe you can scoop the litter boxes and then take them to the car?”
I stare at her warily. “Scoop the litter boxes?” Does she mean pick them up or…?
“You know, if there are any clumps or anything…” At my horrified look, she rolls her eyes and says, “Never mind. You can finish packing my things, since you seem to know what I need. I’ll get the cats and their stuff ready to go.”
Blowing out a relieved breath, I set down Mr. Puffs and walk over to the dresser to grab Emma’s underwear and socks.
As much as I want her at my place, I’m not sure I can handle picking up cat poop or whatever “scooping” entails.
I’m not a neat freak—at least I don’t consider myself one—but I definitely like things to be clean and sanitary.
Thanks to my mother’s love affair with alcohol, I mopped up enough vomit and piss in my early years to last a lifetime.
Emma disappears into the bathroom, and I quickly pack whatever I think she might need over the next week. We can fight the one-night-or-longer battle later. Then I call Wilson, my driver, to come in and get the suitcase.
He’s already at the door when Emma emerges from the bathroom, carrying a plastic box filled with rocky sand—which is thankfully free of clumps.
“Here, give it to me.” I take the litter box from her—the thing is surprisingly heavy—and hand it to Wilson, then grab the suitcase myself and follow my driver out to the car, which is waiting by the curb.
We load everything into the trunk, and I return to pick up whatever’s left.
That turns out to be two more litter boxes (apparently, each cat requires its own) and two cat carriers, one with Mr. Puffs and the other—a bigger, plastic one—with the two smaller cats together.
“I haven’t taken the three of them out together since they were kittens,” Emma explains as I take both carriers from her after dealing with the litter boxes.
“Usually, I only need to bring one or two to the vet at the same time. Luckily, Queen Elizabeth and Cottonball still fit into that one.” She nods toward the plastic carrier.
“Normally, I use it to carry Mr. Puffs, since he’s so big. ”
“Right.” I take the cats to the car while she locks up, and Wilson gets them situated in the back seat.
“Thank you,” I tell him when he straightens, and his normally expressionless face breaks into a smile.
“My pleasure, sir. Beautiful cats, if I may say so. I have a Persian of my own, but he’s gray, not white.”
I blink. I had no idea my reserved, seemingly emotionless driver had pets of any kind. “That’s nice. How long have you had him?”
“Oh, almost fifteen years. He’s getting up there in age, my cat. Sleeps most of the day, you know.”
I don’t know, having never been around cats, but I nod as if I can relate.
After all, I’m about to become a pet owner myself.
“All done,” Emma says, approaching the car. In her hands is a clear plastic bag with a few cans of cat food and toys. “We can go.”
“Good. Let’s go then.” And with one last look at Wilson, who’s beaming at us with uncharacteristic warmth, I usher Emma into the car.