Sitting in the back, I open my laptop, hop on the cab’s free Wi-Fi, and review the slobbery cliché photo I posted earlier. It’s such a glorious shot. It might be my favorite yet. Cookie looks possessed. Her eyes are crossed, and you can see actual strings of saliva. Gross but cool. I check the likes and comments. This one’s getting traction.
But weirdly, nothing from Oliver. Either he hasn’t seen the photo or he wasn’t particularly impressed. I decide to give him a nudge.
I finished the assignment, Oliver! Let me know what you think. Do you drool on your human like a little savage too? Xoxo, C
Despite my bad mood, I smile a little. Oliver will surely be horrified by how undignified and slobbery Cookie looks in that photo, and his response will be a pick-me-up after my super-shitty day.
Immediately, a chat request pops up.
Is that your human in the photo, Cookie? She has a tattoo?
This is not the reaction I was expecting. Does he not see the copious amounts of spittle? The crossed eyes? The extended tongue?
Yeah, that’s my owner. You have a problem with her tattoo now?
I’m so sorry, Cookie. I’ve got to meet a friend right now. But can we please talk about your vulgar public slavering later?
Abruptly, he leaves the chat.
“Okay fine, Oliver,” I say out loud, slapping my laptop shut, “be that way.” The cab driver looks in his rearview mirror at me and raises his eyebrows.
“Your kid?” he asks.
“No.” I let out the breath I was holding. “Long story. It’s a cat.”
* * *
As soon as I’m home, I kick off my boots and flop on the couch with a generous pour of my favorite boxed red wine. I’m too tired to do anything functional, but I’m so tempted to get back online right now to do some more research. There are things I need to know. Like who’s the blonde in the photos with Hudson Holm/Ragnar?
That woman looks like what I imagined was his type. Right down to her invisible pores and expensive, balayage-tipped tresses.
Not that it matters. She is more than welcome to him. I should feel sorry for her, dating a Holm. Hudson might even be worse than his brother. He’s the devil in deceptive packaging.
Which is just another way of saying he’s the devil, I realize.
Thank goodness I resisted his attempts at flirting with me. Who knows what else he thought he could get away with?
He isn’t going to get away with anything, I vow. I recall how satisfying it was, punching his brother. For some reason, I can’t imagine decking Hudson though. Icanimagine ripping his clothes off. Just tearing them off. Right. Off. His. Perfect. Body. And then sinking my nails into his flesh. Maybe biting him too. I bet he’d taste delicious. He’d certainly smelled good.
The bastard.
Maybe I should check if there are some shirtless photos of him online? I could print one of them out and throw darts at it.
I’m spinning, and I have to put a stop to it. I will not think about Hudson Holm anymore. Not even for a minute. He is officially banished from my brain. I will not waste another moment imagining him striding into my village wearing deerskin pants and a horned helmet.
I hate him. I hate Hudson Holm!
I polish off my glass of wine and refill my cup.
Perhaps Emily was right, and I’d be better off phoning a lawyer? But of course, the only lawyer I know well enough to call is the one who managed my mom’s estate.
And what good would it do to call him, really? Even if I had the cash to pay a retainer, I’d be pitting my hourly-rate estate attorney up against what was likely a whole team of sharky, in-house counsel.
Good luck with that.
Time to regroup. I’ll need to come up with a new plan. Tomorrow. Tonight, I just need time to sink my sorry, tired self into a steaming-hot bubble bath.
I fill the tub with hot water and drop a hot-pink, jasmine-scented ball in, watching it fizz and turn the water a violent shade of pink. Then I lower myself in.
