Emma
“Minerva Cassiopeia of the Princess Diana Chunk! Get down here this instant, or we are going to be late.”
She glared at me from the top of her cat tower as I stomped my foot, slowly blinking her big blue eyes—like an asshole. Her tail swished from side to side before she turned toward the glass door leading to the porch, cutting off my rant in favor of ignoring it. I huffed, rolling my eyes as I walked to the kitchen to get the freeze-dried tuna strips she loved. Minerva’s eyes followed me as I returned and sat on the couch, opened the pouch, and put three treats on the carpet.
My jerk-face of a cat stretched then did a one-eighty, choosing to stare at the wall rather than come down from her perch. It was like she knew she was going to the vet. Some innate kitty superpower told her to make it as inconvenient as possible for me to get her into the carrier. I learned my lesson as I stared at her, remembering how I broke the last cat tower, thinking the bottom perch could support my weight, and ending up canceling that vet appointment and nursing a massive bruise on my butt.
This time, I knew better, choosing to bribe her with treats—but it wasn’t working. I sighed, standing to slowly approach her. She still ignored me as I stretched to my tiptoes and put a treat beside her. I put another on the lower branch and threw two into her carrier for good measure. At least if she had to suffer through vaccinations and someone shaving her butthole, she would get treats for her trouble.
After an agonizing six minutes, where I pretended to scroll TikTok, she gobbled the first treat and slowly stepped to the lower perch. I stood, and she froze, a stripe of gray fur down her spine rising with her irritation, but there wasn’t time for more of her games. I grabbed her with both hands, tucking her under my arm like a football, and groaned, feeling her back claws dig into my stomach.
Once she noticed the treats in the carrier, she stopped struggling enough for me to close it, and I headed to the car. Several profanities slipped from my lips as I carried her down two flights of stairs. The drive was uneventful, with her yowling reduced to a minimum once we turned out of the neighborhood.
Her aversion to the carrier was nothing compared to her loathing toward Dr. Hansen and her vet tech, Melissa. Since Dr. Hansen’s pregnancy began, Minerva had taken to making biscuits on her stomach while Melissa handled the clippers. We’d see how she’d act since baby Eloise was born. Miller had shown me about a thousand pictures over the last month or so, claiming he was the best and most handsome uncle ever.
It was oddly adorable—watching him coo and croon over photos of the baby in little pink booties and a pair of crocheted handcuffs that had his mother, Beverly, written all over it. He’d make a great dad one day—if he bothered to get his head out of his ass and put a minuscule amount of effort into developing a relationship. Maybe this online dating bullshit would work for him. Wait. Nope. I wouldn’t wish this emotional rollercoaster on anyone.
I shook my head as another vet tech ushered us into an exam room, and I unzipped the carrier, brushing an obscene amount of cat hair from my leggings as Minerva dove behind the garbage can, thinking she’d done an excellent job of hiding from her nemesis. I ignored her, pulling my phone from my purse and swiping through my text messages. I’d left two unanswered from Miller but couldn’t deal with his optimism today.
Perhaps, instead of pushing him away, I should participate in some horizontal after-hours fun time so he could rub some of his unending optimism off on me. Could that be why my panties had been permanently wedged up my butt this last week—Miller’s and my lack of intimate time? Nope. It was a combination of Headmaster Hopkirk making no fewer than five remarks about meeting my beau, another lousy date, my car needing a new oil pan, and Minerva refusing to listen.
The only positive aspect of this week was leaving school a few hours earlier than usual so I wouldn’t have to spend my Saturday in a vet clinic. I also made sure any more dates stayed firmly in the middle of the week. There would be no more of the Friday and Saturday night nonsense—that would be solely reserved for second dates.
My time would be spent with people who already knew and liked me—not with men who made passive-aggressive comments about my wardrobe and dinner choices.
This shifty attitude had to go.
I had yoga with the girls tomorrow and dinner with my dad on Sunday. There wasn’t time for this much self-deprivation.
“Well, hello Minerva. How’s my favorite purebred and her owner?”
I vaguely heard the door open and someone talking, but my brain continued to loop through a slideshow of the last week.
Like when my latest lousy date said I had no business ordering a cheeseburger.
Or perhaps when Mrs. Dawlish commented that my heels were not conservative enough.
It wasn’t all bad, though, remembering when Miller came over the other night to ask about the second date before leaning close to brush a strand of hair from my face and whisper filthy words about burying his face between my legs.
A warm, tingling feeling built in my belly, and I sighed, leaning back on the bench and pressing my hand to my stomach. Things would be much easier if I could hire a guy to be a stand-in boyfriend, but that would be like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. Even if I fooled the school, the same problem would be there, with my bank account substantially lighter and my freaking father desperate to control the narrative.
Something had to give. I couldn’t keep wandering through my twenties, hoping every puzzle piece of my life would fit neatly together. It was just like when I noticed my pants were getting a little tight around the middle. I had to act—though waking up early on a Saturday to exercise was a personal pain point for me.
As if the universe heard my constant complaining about life, my phone beeped, pulling me out of my stupor as I recognized the notification sound from one of the dating apps.
“Emma? Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“Sex and endorphins.” I sighed, shaking my head as Minerva let out a particularly loud meow. My head snapped up in time to see Melissa rising from the floor with Minerva securely wrapped in a towel. Her tail flicked with irritation as I replayed the words I’d carelessly said aloud.
“I can’t believe I said that, Dr. Hansen.”
“Don’t think twice,” Melissa said, grasping my wiggling feline on the scruff of her neck so the vet could begin her exam. “Though I would love to know if you were talking about someone specific.” She winked, adjusting Minerva so she could prepare the vaccines.
“Arg. Don’t call me Dr. Hansen. You’ve been a friend of the family longer than Mark and I have been married. In fact, Miller and Magnum are in the back adjusting the sensors on the kennel lights they installed.” Jenna—not Dr. Hansen—said, helping Melissa tuck a wayward paw back into the towel as Minerva hissed, her attempt at escape ruined.
“Well, you earned the title of doctor.”
“Yes, but you’re my friend, Emma. Now, how are the diet adjustments going? Are there any improvements?” She scratched Minerva’s ears before checking them, along with her teeth and eyes. They switched positions as Jenna held on to the towel, and Melissa removed one leg at a time to trim between her toe beans.
“Yes, thank you so much for the suggestion and guidance. Her coat has improved since adding raw food to her diet. She doesn’t like eggs and lamb, but she loves venison, duck, and any kind of fish.”
“Fantastic. What about the supplements?”
I opened the notes app on my phone, going through her preference for the vitamins Jenna had me adding to her food. We adjusted the dosages before Melissa took her to the back to complete the exam.
“So,” Jenna said, arching an eyebrow as she finished entering the exam notes into her iPad. She crossed her arms and tilted her head, smiling like she was about to share some big secret. “Are you bringing a date to the party?”
“Hell no,” I answered, shaking my head. My hair bounced around my face, and I tucked it back behind my ears as Jenna chuckled. “I refuse to subject your family to my string of horrendous dates. Especially on your mother-in-law’s birthday. The night needs to be about her, and I’ve been teaching myself crochet. After seeing the guys wear her hats and scarves for years, I figured it would be nice if someone made her something. You can almost tell the difference between a scarf and a sweater. It should be perfect by the party.”
“I can’t wait to see it.” She chuckled, leaning closer to give me a hug. “I’ve been trimming a bonsai plant for her, but keeping it away from Phoebe is half the battle.”
“Oh, yes. I understand that. I gave up on having plants in the house with Minerva years ago.”
“I should do the same, but I’ve had my plants longer than I’ve had that kitten,” she said, laughing. “I’ll go check on Minnie. Text if you need anything. Lunch next week?”
“Definitely,” I said, returning her embrace and waving before she stepped out of the room. I pulled up the messages on my phone, staring at Miller’s texts and wondering if I could just wander through the clinic to find him. Perhaps the scent of sweetened coffee creamer—his signature scent—would lead the way.
Nope. He was working, and even if his sister-in-law was the lead vet, it would be rude to interrupt just to say—what?
Confess my frustration with the dating apps? He knew that.
He was my person—one of my best friends—and things were weird. Maybe it was his haughty, passive comments about my lackluster dates or his constant reminder that my entire existence should not revolve around a freaking promotion. Whatever it was, he’d gotten too close to the thoughts plaguing me, and I couldn’t decipher how to handle it.
We were in desperate need of a night filled with pizza, beer, movies, and orgasms to get back to where we were pre-dating apps. How ridiculous was my life that it had to be divided into pre- and post- possible promotion? I was halfway to adopting a decrepit spinster persona that babbled to flowers about the unfairness of her life.
Clearly, these not-great dates were devastating to my emotional well-being—not to mention my self-esteem—or lack thereof. Perhaps I needed to almost suffocate in self-pity to crawl out stronger.
“I thought Jenna said Minerva had an appointment today,” Miller said, causing me to jump as he walked into the waiting room with his arms crossed and a smile spread across his features.
“Hey, you,” I said, breathing in his sweet scent as he leaned down and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Minerva was due for vaccines and a trim.”
He rested his head in between my neck and shoulder before planting a swift kiss on my pulse point. My body shivered with the contact, and I returned his hug tenfold, molding my body to where he pressed against me.
Neither of us moved as Melissa opened the door, smirking and maneuvering a very angry feline back into the carrier. Her eyes flicked between us, and she wiggled her fingers before slipping back out. I smiled as he pulled away to peek into the carrier, a warm fuzzy feeling enveloped me—a feeling I’d long since realized was just from me being near him—like he was a boost of serotonin made just for me.
“Poor little princess,” he cooed, bending to look at her as I watched his shirt tighten across his back, showcasing the muscles rippling underneath.
“What time are you planning on getting to the party, Em?” he asked, sticking his finger through the holes of the carrier to scratch Minerva. She pushed against his hand, and I rolled my eyes, knowing I’d have to suffer through some disgusting food preparation like rabbit liver or raw catfish to keep her from pooping outside the litter box in retribution for this visit.
“I think Maverick said he booked the room for eight. I’ll be there right at eight or a little before, depending if y’all need any help with the setup.” I rested my head against the wall, watching as he nodded, interacting with my traitorous cat. If it was up to Bev, I know she wouldn’t do anything for her birthday—especially this big milestone—but all four of her boys insisted, going so far as to hire a party planner for the occasion.
“Oh, good. The planner is handling everything, so I’m sure eight is fine,” he said as his eyes slid from the carrier back to me. “It wouldn’t be weird if I brought a date, right?”
I blinked as this odd, unpleasant, swooping sensation took root in my belly, extinguishing the warmth. My nose twitched, and I bit the inside of my cheek. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”
He furrowed his brows and shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not. Seeing anyone, I mean. Just, you know. Thought I might bring someone.”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes, keeping them firmly planted on the tile floor as I swallowed thickly, hoping to displace the nausea that had taken over my stomach. My meager lunch threatened to reappear, and I was glad my subconscious choice of apple slices with peanut butter had prepared me for this scenario.
“You know, Magnum has Brooke. Mark has Jenna and Eloise. I assumed you’d try to break yourself of the string of bad dates and bring someone new along. Just thought I’d try my hand with someone as well.”
I should interrupt his ramblings, but I couldn’t get the idea of him with a date out of my head. There was no reason for me to be so bothered. We’d both dated before—and I was actively dating this very moment. Why did I care if he did the same?
“You’re acting strange,” he said, snapping his finger in front of my face before shoving his hands in his front pockets. “If you’d rather I didn’t bring anyone, it’s fine. I’d never do anything to make you uncomfortable.”
I held up one hand, shaking my head so he’d stop talking. “Why would it make me uncomfortable?” My voice came out higher than normal, and he stepped closer, lacing his fingers through the hand resting by my side.
“Emma. You know I haven’t been with anyone since we started things up again. I wouldn’t do something like that to you. You’re too important.”
He squeezed my hand, and I tried to return the gesture, but my heart was lodged in my chest as the gurgling in my stomach shifted violently.
“I know that. Of course, I know that. I wouldn’t either.”
Smooth.
“Do that.”
Idiot.
“To you. I’m sure your date is lovely. I’m bringing someone as well.”
“Emma.”
“Miller.”
His eyes tightened, and he gripped me harder. He was close enough for me to see the hazel flecks in his dark eyes.
“What’s your date’s name? I haven’t pre-approved anyone lately.”
Damn, this man and his cunningness.
“His name is Zach, if you must know, and I am capable of responding to messages on the app without your input.”
“Fine. I look forward to meeting him and will reserve my judgment of his worth until tomorrow.”
“Fine, and I’ll reserve my opinion of your date until tomorrow as well.”
“Super.”
“Fantastic.”
“Brilliant.”
I huffed, tucking my hair behind my ear as he stepped closer, reaching forward and grabbing my waist. My lips parted but refused to form words as my pulse fluttered. Perhaps he should argue with me about the double standard, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned down slowly as I breathed in, taking in the spicy scent of his cologne and the sweetness lingering from his coffee.
Lying about a date to Bev’s party was a disaster in the making, but between the headmaster and the not subtle threats from my father about not taking the new job opportunity seriously, something had to give. What was one more lousy date? At least I could go into this one not expecting anything but misery. The weight of my expectations felt like a physical presence on my chest, and I wondered—not for the first time—if this was the wisest decision for my future.
When Miller’s lips brushed my forehead, I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t whimper at his close contact. Without another word, he left, and I pressed a hand to my stomach, knowing I needed to get my life together before this blasted party.