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I give Briar a boost over the railing, where she drops down into Gavin’s waiting arms, and I’m the last one out. I climb over too, catching a fleeting glimpse of Rhys handing something to a dude in a mesh hat.
Pretty sure there’s a clause somewhere in my contract that second-story cat rescues are verboten so I pray to the hockey gods that I can keep living an injury-free life as I jump down seconds after Briar, who’s telling Gavin he can leave the gnome behind.
Gavin must have put the books away while we were up there, since he’s already got the suitcase in his hand as he sets the gnome down. The three of us race across the lot toward a faded blue Honda, old but well-kept, as the cat thrashes and roars.
Grabbing the key fob from her pocket, Briar points it and unlocks the car while running, which might be one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen, and maybe that’s what’s fueling my attraction to her right now—because I lusted after action heroines when I was a kid. Though, in all fairness, I’ve pretty much thought Briar was hot every time she played pool or Ping-Pong with our friend group over the last couple years. She slides in and drops the cat bag onto the floor of the passenger seat next to the world’s cutest wiener dog right as I climb in shotgun. The pooch barks a surprised but enthusiastic hello, then scampers into my lap to lick my face.
“Hey, long dog.” I hold the pup while I locate the buckle.
Gavin piles into the backseat with the suitcase, shoving aside a couple garbage bags with clothes peeking through the top. Jesus. Briar’s ex is a piece of work.
Briar cranks on the engine and peels out of the spot like she’s a Hollywood racer. “You’re the grease woman and the getaway driver,” I say, impressed.
“I can handle more than one task at a time,” she says dryly, flashing a smile as she cruises over to Rhys, who’s waving goodbye to the guy in the hat, then calling out a chipper “cheers” to him. She stops for our friend as a gleaming black SUV pulls up to the curb twenty feet down the road.
My teammate grabs the door handle and gets in behind Briar onto the backseat, hauling the trash bag next to him onto his lap. I’m dying to know what went down with the hat dude, but I’m a little worried about our driver. Her trace of a smile has vanished. Her fingers grip the wheel tighter as she flicks the right-turn signal, checking traffic anxiously.
“That’s my ex,” she says tightly, nodding to the SUV where a guy in a paisley shirt now offers a hand to a leggy brunette stepping out of the passenger side, dangling a pink rhinestone-studded cat collar in her hand.
Spotting an opening, Briar pulls onto the road, exhaling. As we drive past them, the cat caterwauls once more.
“And I believe that was fuck you in feline,” I say.
“Yes. Yes, it was,” Briar says, giving me a faint smile that makes me feel like we made her shitty day a little bit better, and that’s even better than winning our game.
She hits the gas, and I don’t know where we’re going. I’m not sure where runaway cats and sexy action heroine yoga instructors go when the chips are down, but I know one thing for sure—I’m comin’ with her.
5
I OWE YOU
Briar
My pulse is still pounding several blocks later. Is this what it’s like to pull off a heist? My dad loves those kinds of movies so he made me watch all his old faves countless times when I was growing up.
Now, as I slow to a stop at a red light on the edge of Russian Hill, finally feeling like I’m far enough away from Madison and Steven the Cat Burglar that they aren’t going to hop a trolley, catch up, and pound on the window of my car, I turn to the guy next to me.
Hollis, with his floppy hair that falls just past his ears, eternal laidback smile, and light, glowy skin, has given Donut to Gavin and is holding my backpack in his lap. Mrs. Frances Furbottom is still in the backpack, but she’s settled into her rescuer and is now showing off her purring skills. As the adrenaline starts to wear off, I catch my breath. I’m a little curious about my three heroes.
I peer in the rearview mirror into the dark brown eyes of the Brit. “What happened with that guy in the hat? The one on the street talking to you?”
“Yeah, and where’s the sushi?” Gavin asks from the backseat.
“Is that really the priority? Your fucking fish?” Hollis raises his eyebrows in his teammate’s direction.
“No. It’s the point,” Gavin says firmly.
Rhys ignores them, answering with, “He thought I was the delivery guy from the other night. And he felt terrible that he’d forgotten to tip me. So he was apologizing.”
Hollis barks out a laugh. “Apologizing?”
“And he tipped me a twenty,” Rhys says, seeming amused.
“Did you keep it?” Gavin asks.
“He was insistent,” Rhys says with a shrug.
Hollis shakes his head next to me. “Dude, that would only happen to you.”
