3. Flick #2
He shrugs a shoulder and shifts the basket around in his hands like he’s suddenly nervous. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”
The vulnerability in that admission catches me off guard. Dr. Sebastian Blum, who probably has his whole week scheduled down to the minute, has nowhere to be but here. With me.
I bite into my smile. “You like movies?”
“I like hanging out with pretty girls.” He ducks his head like he’s embarrassed to have just said that, then looks up at me from under his lashes.
It’s such a boyish, kind of dorky move, that I laugh out loud. “I would love it if you stayed…whether or not we rewind the yarn.”
I do have work to finish up, and then a virtual hangout with my grandma, but those things can be rescheduled. It’s not every day that a guy this sexy crosses my path, and if I were to send a pic of him to my grandma, she would definitely understand.
Grandma’s been not-so-subtly hinting about great-grandchildren since I turned twenty-five. A photo of a handsome veterinarian untangling yarn in my living room might buy me a few months of peace.
“Wait.” I gasp and spin around. “Where’s the kitten?”
My heart races. Did she slip outside when I opened the front door? What if she’s out there on the streets again? She could get hit by a car or carried off by a hawk!
The panic is instant and overwhelming. Just like me to lose something I’m supposed to be taking care of. This is why I don’t do responsibility. This is why I keep people at arm’s length.
Sebastian chuckles.
“This isn’t funny,” I snap. How can a man who helps animals be amused by this?
“You’re holding her.” He nods at my left arm, where, yep, she’s snoozing in the crook of my elbow.
“Oh my God. I’m sorry.” Closing my eyes, I drop my head back and take a deep breath. “This kitten is making me go crazy.”
“Because you already love her.”
The words hit too close to home. Love means loss. Love means vulnerability. Love means someone else having the power to destroy you.
“I’m not keeping her. I can’t keep a cat.” I lead him into the living room.
“Famous last words.”
“Words that I mean. Look at the mess she’s already made,” I say, pointing to the basket in his hands.
“I had to move a bunch of stuff around when I brought her home, and I’m sure I’ve missed something else like I did this.
I’ve never had a pet, nor do I have time for one now.
” I suddenly stop talking, feeling like I’m going to have an anxiety attack.
The familiar spiral starts—too much, too fast, too many ways to fail. My chest tightens. I can’t take care of a cat when some days I can barely take care of myself. What happens when I have a flare? When I can’t get out of bed? When my hands won’t work enough to open a can of cat food?
Sebastian walks over to me and puts a hand lightly on my arm, and I feel a sudden zing at the connection. My eyes snap to his, and I can tell he feels it too.
“It will all work out the way it’s meant to. Now, how about this yarn?”
The subject change is gentle but firm, giving me an out from the spiral. He’s good at this—reading people, knowing when to push and when to redirect. It makes me wonder what his story is, why someone who could clearly have anyone is spending his evening untangling yarn with a mess like me.
“Right. Let’s go over here.” Walking to the couch, I shift all my unfolded laundry to one side instead of it taking up the entire couch. “Sorry, again, about the mess. I thought I’d have more time between dyeing and your arrival.”
Placing Cat on the empty cushion, I plop down on the floor in front of the coffee table and place the basket of yarn beside me, then gesture to Sebastian. “Take your pick. Couch or floor. Either will work.”
Sebastian takes the open spot on the couch next to the kitten and watches me pull out the yarn. “So, how do we do this?”
I hold up a section of the tangled mess, searching for an end. “First, we find where it starts. Then we follow the strand through, loosening knots as we go. The trick is patience. And not pulling too hard when you hit resistance.”
My fingers work through the first knot, muscle memory taking over despite the ache. “Sometimes what looks impossible just needs someone willing to sit with it for a while. To work through the tangles without making them worse.”
He takes a section of yarn, his veterinarian hands surprisingly gentle with the delicate fiber. “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”
“More times than I can count. Hazard of the trade.” I pause, watching him work. “Though usually I’m alone when it happens.”
“Not tonight,” he says simply, and something warm unfolds in my chest.
Maybe that’s what scares me most. Not tonight. But what about tomorrow? What about when he realizes I’m more trouble than I’m worth? When the reality of chronic illness stops being something he can help with and starts being a burden?
I focus on the yarn, on the simple act of untangling. One knot at a time. Don’t think about tomorrow. Don’t think about the way his presence makes my apartment feel less empty. Don’t think about how Cat has stopped meowing and is purring between us like she’s exactly where she belongs.
Just untangle the yarn. Everything else can wait.