Chapter 17 Playlist I Mean, What
THE FOLLOWING DAY I’M finishing up my lunch shift at Pearl’s alongside a chatty Shelby and a silent Anders when Gregory sends me a text.
I haven’t been by the store in a few days, and I head there when I get off, and find Gregory sitting alone in the break room with a bottle of water. I like that he waited for me in here rather than going out back without me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey. How was work?” he asks, and before I can reply, adds, “Was your boyfriend working?”
He wasn’t, but I say, “Yeah, we did it in the storage room right before I came here. That’s why I’m a few minutes late.” I snag his water and take a sip before handing it back to him. “And I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Trust me, he wants to be.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He was watching you the whole time you sat with us. Guys can tell when another one is interested in a girl.”
I don’t know what gives me the confidence to say what I say next, but it just sort of comes out before I really think about it. “That’s a very interesting theory, Dr. McLoughlin, because he said you have a thing for me.”
Gregory’s gaze snaps back to mine, and I wish I could read his mind. I can’t believe I just insinuated to Gregory that he likes me to his face.
“Interesting.” His expression remains cool, impassive.
I wait a long moment, and when he says nothing else, I say, “Interesting? That’s all you have to say to that?”
He nods and stands. He takes off his vest and badge and stuffs them into a locker. He must have already clocked out. “Yep. Ready?”
I follow him into the hallway and to the back door.
He seems tense. I don’t know why, because it’s really not his business, but I amend my previous answer.
“My friend Myles wasn’t actually at work today.
Just Shelby and Anders.” I keep to myself that Shelby badgered me the entire time about my friendship with Gregory.
Gregory’s shoulders seem to relax. He opens the door and holds it open, gesturing for me to go first. “Find out what Tweety’s for yet?”
“Nope,” I say as I step outside and into the sunshine. “Maybe you should come by again and ask him.”
“Maybe I will,” he says, following me onto the concrete. The door falls shut behind us. No one else is out here, per usual. It’s overcast today, so the usual shadows in the alcove aren’t as apparent. “My mom thought you were a delight.”
I theatrically toss my hair over my shoulder. “That’s because I am.”
“Clearly she hasn’t spent enough time with you.”
I punch his shoulder, and he feigns shock, rubbing it.
“How was work for you today?” I ask. “Of note, my dad has not said you’re a delight.”
Gregory stops and stares at me. I was just teasing, like we do—but obviously something about this didn’t hit right. I immediately try to fix it.
“But that’s just because he’d never call anyone that. He did say you’re a hard worker, and he’s glad he hired you.”
Relief passes over his features. “Oh. Good. I want him to think I’m doing a good job.” He grips the back of his neck for a second. “I, uh, I like your dad. He’s a cool boss.”
I’m not surprised, because my dad’s a great person to work for.
He takes work seriously but not too much.
He’s fair and understands that life happens sometimes, and never asks anyone to do something he wouldn’t do himself.
Last week when Phoebe couldn’t work because her grandma had fallen and had to go to the hospital, my dad took the shift as a bag boy for several hours.
He’s also lighthearted and funny, and always smiling.
I like that Gregory likes him.
Fiona and Waffles are in the box when we approach the alcove.
Their food and water bowls are low, so we each grab one and take them back inside for refills.
Usually when we do this, Fiona’s waiting for us to bring her a fresh meal by the wall, but when we come back outside, she’s still curled up next to Waffles.
Gregory frowns.
“That’s weird,” I say.
He crouches down to peer inside. “Hey, Fiona baby.”
My breath catches at the warm, smooth way he croons to her. It’s soft and gentle and sweet—starkly different from the way he usually speaks to me, which is filled with sarcasm or over-the-top flirtation.
He’s talking to a cat, Amelia. I internally shake myself out of it.
He reaches inside and pets her for a moment. He looks over his shoulder at me, brow still furrowed.
“Is she okay?” I ask, worried now.
“I’m not sure.” He pulls his arm back and scoots sideways to make room.
I kneel beside him, and for us both to see into the box I basically have to press my shoulder up against his. A whiff of pine comes my way again, like at the restaurant.
I don’t know anything about cats, but I definitely know—especially from what just happened with Margarine—that appetite changes aren’t a good sign.
Being antisocial is normal for Waffles—even though we’re (well, Gregory is) making progress—but Fiona’s a real attention seeker.
She likes to curl around ankles, rub up against calves, and lean her head into our hands for ear rubs.
She usually goes for a healthy serving of food right when it’s fresh, then leaves the rest for Waffles, who I assume picks at it after we leave.
Today Fiona doesn’t seem interested in anything. Not even a belly rub. She lifts her head to regard us from the back corner of the box but doesn’t move otherwise.
“I’ll go get a treat,” Gregory says. “See if she wants that.”
I reach in and lightly stroke her back while he’s gone. Waffles watches me warily. Believe it or not, that’s an improvement. Two weeks ago she was still darting out of the box and into the shadows if I so much as put my index finger inside.
Gregory returns with several treats and sticks his hand back into the box.
“Waffles, no,” he scolds. “These aren’t for you. Waffles!” He reaches in with his other arm to hold Waffles back. Jeez, Gregory must be some sort of animal whisperer. I don’t think she’d tolerate me handling her like that.
With three of our arms in here, it’s a tight fit. I could pull mine out to make more room for Gregory and his attempts to get Fiona’s attention, but I don’t hate the way his warm skin feels up against mine.
After one more exasperated “Dammit, Waffles!” I hide a smile in my shoulder. “You’ve spoiled her. She knows you always bring her treats.”
He sighs like he’s annoyed with himself.
Finally he gives up and lets Waffles have the treats. “I think something’s wrong with Fiona.”
“I don’t think she feels good,” I agree.
His concerned gaze meets mine. “What should we do?”
I bite my lip, thinking for a minute. “We could take her to my house. There was some plumbing work at the gallery today, so my mom’s home. She’ll know if we should take her to the vet or not.”
Gregory nods. “Okay. Should we load them up in my car?”
“Them?”
“Well, yeah. I don’t want to separate them.”
“Right. We’ll just take the whole box, then?”
He stands. “I’ll pull my car around.”
He takes off at a jog toward the parking lot. I consider sending my mom a warning text of what we’re bringing home, but decide against it. She might tell me not to.
An older model Toyota Camry appears, and Gregory pulls up as close as he can get, just on the other side of the picnic table. I pour out the water and grab both bowls, the other one still full of food.
“I have a dog,” I say as he squats and gingerly picks up the box, trying to keep it level with both felines still inside. “So we’ll have to keep them in the garage.”
Gregory nods. Long cords of muscle flex along his forearms as he carries the box, and I blink, wondering why I’m just now noticing this. I sort of just filed him in my brain as tall and skinny and didn’t really pay enough attention to think about Gregory having muscles.
It’s also critical to acknowledge that said muscles are being used to carry a makeshift bed—that he made—for two scruffy stray cats that he’s been taking care of and is worried about.
Gregory McLoughlin is full of surprises.
I open the rear door, and he places the box on the seat. I hear a rustling sound and a muffled “Oh!” and Gregory steps back with Fiona clinging to his shirt.
He’s wincing. “Easy with the claws,” he says to her. Then he looks up at me. “As soon as I put the box down, she climbed up here.”
“Aw,” I say. “Poor thing. I think she’s scared.”
He leans back inside the car and attempts to detach her, but she’s not having it. Now she’s mewling like a banshee. I hold my hands up, not knowing how to help.
“Can you drive?” he asks, straightening again. He’s supporting the cat with his arms. “She doesn’t want me to put her down.”
“Sure.”
The car’s still on, so I slide into the driver’s seat, and he settles beside me, Fiona clinging to him. I reach over and gently scratch her ears the way I know she likes, then drive us to my house.
I know that my mom’s Ford is in the garage, but there’s a pretty spacious area against the back wall.
I park Gregory’s car as close as I can and get out to tap the code to open the overhead garage door.
Gregory’s hands are still full of Fiona, so I handle getting the box and Waffles (which, thankfully, isn’t as heavy as I expected) and find the perfect spot for it.
I leave Gregory trying to coax Fiona back into the box and shut the garage door behind us.
The last thing we need is for either cat to dart off somewhere in my neighborhood.
Gregory finally gets Fiona settled, but now he’s holding his shirt away from his body, frowning.
“I think she threw up on me,” he says, tilting his head away from his chest.
I wrinkle my nose. “Looks like it.”
“Is this what it feels like to be a parent?” he asks. “Being completely grossed out but also super worried when something’s wrong with it?”
“Probably,” I say. “But I don’t think you’re supposed to call your child an ‘it.’ ”
He waves a hand like this doesn’t matter.
“I probably have another shirt you can wear,” I offer. “If you want to change. Or wash that.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. I have a couple of T-shirts that would fit you.”
“Okay. Thanks.” He reaches back to grasp the collar of his shirt and tugs it over his head, smoothly pulling it off while keeping the mess contained.
Listen, I see shirtless guys a lot. Torsos attached to all sorts of bodies—young, old, fit, not-so-fit.
I don’t usually get flustered around exposed skin.
I think maybe it’s happening now because…
I don’t know, because it caught me off guard?
I’ve been hanging out with Gregory for almost a month, and I had no idea he had this going on under there.
Remember how I just noticed Gregory’s forearms?
Like, literally today? Well, if we’re keeping a list, which apparently I am, we should add chest and abs to it.
Countable abs, which is an important modifier.
They’re all on display in those low-rise jeans he’s wearing.
I clear my throat when our eyes meet. “Yeah. Um. So, let’s go.” I spin around and head for the door to my house, pretending I don’t notice the grin on his face.
“Mom?” I call out.
“In here,” she replies from the living room.
She’s on the couch with a book in her hands. She looks up when I enter, followed by a shirtless Gregory. Her brow inches up.
Margarine leaps from her bed and approaches us, tail pumping. “This is Margarine,” I tell Gregory, and he immediately bends down to pet her.
“This is Gregory,” I say to my mom. “A cat threw up on his shirt.”
Gregory straightens and waves. “Hi, Mrs. Madden.”
“Nice to meet you, Gregory,” my mom says.
“He works with Dad,” I add, and my mom’s face clears like, Ah, that kid. “And I’ll get him a new shirt in a minute. But first, um. We brought cats.”
“You brought cats?” my mom says, like I just said Grass is purple.
“They’re stray cats,” Gregory adds helpfully.
She just stares at us.
“We found them behind the grocery store and have been taking care of them,” I say. “But one of them seems sick, and we don’t know what’s wrong.”
“That explains the cat vomit,” my mom notes. Gregory nods emphatically.
“We didn’t know what to do, and I thought you would. Like with Margarine.”
“And when you say you brought them…” My mom trails off meaningfully.
“They’re… in the garage?” I say it like a question, as if that will lower the chances of her getting pissed.
My mom pinches the bridge of her nose. “Amelia.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do and I couldn’t just leave them there.”
“You can’t keep bringing stray animals home, honey.”
“I’m not asking to keep them,” I say quickly. “I just… I think maybe Fiona needs to go to the vet.”
“You named them?”
“Well, yeah,” I say, because of course we did.
Gregory wisely stays silent.
“And you can’t pretend you’re not happy with the first animal I rescued.” I look pointedly at Margarine, who, after inspecting Gregory, went back to sit next to my mom.
The sigh my mom lets out is a mile long. “I’ll call Dr. Valentine.”