Chapter 51
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
ELSIE
I’m floating on air. I can’t believe I’m on my way home to pack up Mr. Snugglebutt to head over to Beckett’s house—to stay over. Things are moving at the speed of light, and I couldn’t be happier.
This is right—I can feel it, bone-deep. Every time I catch Beckett’s stare, or the way he tucks my hair behind my ear, my heart does that wild, panicked dance.
It’s a little crazy how much I’m already hooked on him.
I don’t even care if it makes me look desperate or reckless.
I want this man, and I want every messy, chaotic second that comes with him.
He makes me feel seen, like maybe I do actually belong here in this small town with my oversized cat and my stubborn streak. Maybe it’s foolish to go all in so soon, but I’d rather crash and burn than spend another day without him.
So, I do it. I put my entire heart on the line.
Mr. Snugglebutt pops out from behind the couch the second I close the door, eyes huge and suspicious. He’s sniffing the air like he knows something’s up—a sixth sense for Trouble. I make it two steps into the kitchen before he launches into a yowl so operatic it could shatter glass.
“I know, I know. I’m late. Again. Sue me.
” I dump my keys and shoulder bag in the entryway, then grab his bowl.
I dump in a scoop of the expensive stuff and brace myself as he leaps onto the counter, tail lashing.
He’s so dramatic. “If you’d just be patient for two seconds, you wouldn’t have to act like it’s the end of the world.
” That’s a lie. Mr. Snugglebutt lives for the drama.
While he inhales his food like he hasn’t eaten since the Clinton administration, I hustle to the bedroom and yank my overnight bag out from under the bed. I toss in my favorite sweats, two clean scrub outfits, a couple of pairs of socks, and the good underwear. Call me prepared.
Mr. Snugglebutt materializes in the doorway, licking his chops and giving me that “what now, peasant?” look. I pop open his travel carrier and brace myself for the battle. He’s already eyeing it like it’s a medieval torture device.
The second I pop the door open, he flattens his ears and bolts for the far side of the room. I lunge after him, managing to grab a fistful of orange fluff just as he disappears under the bed.
“You’re coming with me, mister.” Wrestling Mr. Snugglebutt into the carrier is a full-body workout.
He howls like I’m murdering him, but I finally manage to close the crate door.
“You’d think I was sending you to a meat-packing plant,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“It’s just a sleepover, you drama queen. ”
He glares at me, eyes slitted, plotting my demise, and I know there will be vengeance.
Whatever. We’ll see how long he holds a grudge once Beckett starts doling out treats.
I double-check my bag, snag my phone charger, and remember at the last second to grab Mr. Snugglebutt’s favorite toy mouse off the living room floor. I’m not about to show up for our first official sleepover and have my cat lose his mind because I forgot his emotional support mouse.
Mr. Snugglebutt huffs as I wedge the toy into the side pocket of my bag, like he’s insulted I’d even think he needs a comfort item. Sure, buddy. We both know you’ll be dragging that thing around the minute no one’s watching.
Mr. Snugglebutt howls the entire way down the apartment stairs, going full soprano. God. I hope no one reports me for cat torture.
Mr. Snugglebutt yowls nonstop from the passenger seat the entire ride to Beckett’s house.
Every time I crack the window or say something reassuring, he cranks up the volume.
I reach through the wire door and stroke his fur, hoping for calm.
His tail puffs up another centimeter. I’m getting the death glare of the century.
I try to bribe him with a few words and a tickle through the bars, but Mr. Snugglebutt is officially not having it.
The yowling gets louder the closer we get.
By the time I pull into Beckett’s driveway, I’ve got a throbbing headache and a sneaky suspicion the cat might be plotting to murder me in my sleep.
I kill the ignition and just… sit there, breathing like I just finished a marathon. Maybe I’m nuts for doing this. Maybe we’re moving way too fast. But the idea of going another night without Beckett? No way. I’d rather risk being labeled a desperate hot mess than lose even a single second of this.
I hoist the carrier out of the passenger seat, and Mr. Snugglebutt immediately starts another round of wailing. I barely make it to the front porch before the howling escalates to ear-splitting.
“Okay, okay, we’re here, drama queen,” I whisper through clenched teeth as I fumble for the overnight bag and the carrier at the same time.
I’m halfway up the walk when Beckett throws the door open with that “I’ll handle anything” look on his face.
Instantly, my heart does a triple backflip and splats right onto the welcome mat.
Holy hell, he looks good—even after a long shift.
His jaw is stubbled, his hair is a mess, and those green eyes are locked on me like I’m the last glass of water in the desert and he’s dying of thirst.
Holy hell. My knees actually go a little wobbly.
Beckett’s out the door and halfway down the steps before I make it to the porch.
He stops in front of me, crowding out all the daylight with his ridiculous body, and reaches for the carrier first. Mr. Snugglebutt lets out a howl so dramatic it sounds like I’m trafficking him across state lines. Beckett grins, flashing those lethal canines. “Jesus. That’s a set of lungs.”
“Sorry,” I manage, cheeks flaming. “He’s not a fan of the carrier.”
Beckett takes the carrier from my hands, his fingers brushing mine for a moment too long to be accidental. "Let's get him out of jail before he blows out his vocal cords," he says with a wink, leading me through the doorway into his home.
Beans rockets into the foyer like a bowling ball in a black bristle suit, snorting with glee while Pork hangs back a second, blinking at the carrier like he’s unsure of these new circumstances.
I unlatch the door, and Mr. Snugglebutt bursts out like he’s escaping Alcatraz, tail high and fur puffed to cartoon levels. He stalks straight toward Pork, who steps forward with a cautious sniff and what looks like genuine hope.
Mr. Snugglebutt’s response? HISSSSS and a lightning-fast swipe to the wiener dog’s nose.
“Jesus!” I blurt, lunging forward, but Pork freezes, stunned, completely baffled at this turn of events. I swear the wiener dog actually shrugs before picking up his paw and smacking the cat right back across the face.
For a split second, no one moves. The look on Mr. Snugglebutt’s face is pure indignation. Like, “Excuse me, peasant, did you just touch me?”
The tension lasts all of two-point-five seconds, because then Pork flips the script and licks Mr. Snugglebutt straight up the face. No warning, no apology—just a big, wet, “let’s be friends” right between the cat’s eyes.
Mr. Snugglebutt sits, dead still, processing the glory and horror of having his skull licked by a dog.
Beans circles the entire scene, snorting like he’s refereeing a UFC fight, and I swear to God, Pork and Mr. Snugglebutt both snap their heads to watch the pig as he snorts and chuffs.
I brace myself for round two, but instead of a full-scale brawl, the three animals just…
stand there. Frozen. Like someone hit pause on the world.
Beans lets out another snort, ears twitching as he sizes up the new arrival.
Mr. Snugglebutt’s tail is puffed to full bottle brush, but he doesn’t budge.
He’s glaring at Pork and Beans like he’s daring them to make a move.
Pork cocks his head, clearly not sure if he’s supposed to play, run away, or just lie down and let the cat win.
I’m holding my breath, waiting for the next explosion, but Beckett just grins at me over the top of the chaos, completely unfazed. Honestly, he looks like he’s loving every second of it.
Then, like fate’s flipping a switch, Mr. Snugglebutt climbs up on the giant pet bed, turns in a slow, deliberate circle, and flops right down. The pig and wiener dog follow him, and each curls up next to the cat.
My cat lets out a sigh, like “I’ve accepted my fate,” and two seconds later, Pork snuggles up to the pig’s belly, chin propped across Mr. Snugglebutt’s orange fluff.
I’m so stunned I almost drop the wine glass Beckett hands me.
“They’re… snuggling?” My voice cracks, disbelief on full blast.
Beckett glances at the heap of pets and smirks. “Told you they’d get along.”
“They tried to murder each other thirty seconds ago!”
He shrugs. “That was thirty seconds ago.”
I want to argue, but I can feel all the air leaving my lungs as I watch the little animal pile-up in the living room. Beans is already snoring softly, Pork makes happy little grunting noises, and Mr. Snugglebutt, ever the diva, is kneading the pig’s spine like his own personal massage therapist.
The tension I’ve been dragging all day finally slides off my shoulders.
I didn’t expect this. I was prepared for mayhem, maybe carefully separating the animals, but this is just—perfect.
We order pizza again, and I’m not complaining.
I could eat Mario’s every day for the rest of my natural life, but Beckett actually looks embarrassed when he pulls the box open on the kitchen counter.
“I promise I eat more than pizza,” he admits, voice low.
“I had planned to cook dinner, but I got stuck at my mom’s house.
My asshole brother told the entire family I spent the night out last night.
” I burst out laughing at the look on his face.
“I had to remind them that I’m a thirty-six-year-old man who doesn’t need to explain myself. ”
“Oops.” I can’t sympathize with him. My family isn’t close, and no one cares if I stay out or not.
There’s a weird ache in my chest as I watch Beckett plate up pizza and pour wine like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I think about the last time I had a “family dinner” with anyone.
I can’t even remember. But right now, watching him laugh and drag his hand through his hair, I realize this is what I want my “normal” to be.
He glances over and winks. My brain short-circuits. It’s possible I’m obsessed, but at least I’m in good company.
We flop on the couch, my feet tucked under me, Beckett’s arm heavy around my shoulders.
He grabs the remote and scans the movie options. “Anything you’re in the mood for?”
“Whatever you want.” He flicks through a few choices, and I pretend to care, but the truth is, the only thing I want is to curl up against him and soak in the feeling of being right where I belong.
“Action or comedy?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“Comedy.” I lean back against him and feel my muscles turn to goo.
He grins, all wicked and sweet at the same time. “You got it, Hot Doc.”
I snort out a laugh, then almost choke on my wine when he picks the most ridiculous buddy movie possible. Within ten minutes, I’m giggling like an idiot, barely paying attention to the screen as Beckett keeps up a running commentary that makes everything ten times funnier.
At some point, I realize he’s not even watching the movie. He’s just watching me while his thumb traces lazy circles over my shoulder.