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Hopefully, the cats will be okay without the maze for however long this trial run lasts—and it is a trial run, no matter what she says.
The cats wouldn’t be coming with her otherwise.
It was surprisingly easy to convince her to stay with me tonight—once I suggested the furry beasts accompany her, that is. Before that, it was battle royal, with her completely refusing to see reason. To me, it’s beyond simple: if she’s okay with staying in a hotel I’ve booked, then she should be fine staying at my place. Permanently. Starting with tonight. But Emma doesn’t see it that way.
To her, moving in together is a big deal, and she refuses to take that step so soon.
It’s frustrating, but I’ll take what victories I can get, starting with convincing her to spend the night in my home. The cats were initially an obstacle to that—she didn’t want to leave them alone after being away for so long—but a smart man knows how to take hurdles and use them to leapfrog toward his goal. Hence, my idea of telling her to bring the cats with her.
To have Emma, I’d put up with a horde of demons camping out at my place—which, for all I know, the cats might be.
Of course, early-morning meeting or not, I could’ve stayed with Emma at her place, but that wouldn’t have gotten me any closer to having her move in with me. And frankly, I’m not too keen to spend another night on her narrow, lumpy bed.
Call me spoiled, but I much prefer my comfortable king-sized mattress.
“All right, guys, let’s get you fed before we go,” Emma says, entering her tiny kitchen, and I watch as she opens cans of cat food and puts each one on a separate plate. I take note of which cat gets which brand/flavor, in case I ever have to do this, and then I focus on what I came here for.
Getting Emma packed and ready to go home with me tonight.
I start by unzipping her suitcase and taking out all the clothes she brought to Florida. She’s worn them all, so they go into a laundry hamper. Then I sort through what remains in the suitcase: her toiletries, flip-flops, laptop, and an ancient, beat-up Kindle. She’ll need all of that at my place, so I repack it neatly and walk over to her closet to see what else to take.
“What are you doing?” she asks, coming up next to me as I take out three raggedy sweaters, two pairs of jeans, and a few of her better-looking tops. I’d give my left thumb to be allowed to buy her nicer clothes, but that’s not part of the deal we made.
Not yet, at least.
“I’m helping you pack,” I say, returning to the suitcase. Going down on one knee, I place the clothes on the suitcase top and begin to fold them. “You might want to grab some underwear, socks, pajamas, and anything else along those lines.”
There’s dead silence in response, and when I look up, I find Emma watching me with a narrowed stare. “That’s more than one night’s worth of clothes.” Her tone is dangerously even. “And I don’t need instructions on what to bring.”
Sensing a new battle, I rise to my feet. “I didn’t say you needed instructions. As to the quantity of clothes, why not bring more than you need? Just in case.”
“Because.” She crosses her arms over her chest, her pretty face set in stubborn lines.
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for an elaboration, but none comes my way. What does come my way is her cat. Specifically, the big one, Mr. Puffs.
Green eyes narrowed in perfect imitation of his owner’s expression, he stalks toward me, fluffy tail raised high.
“Puffs!” Emma grabs for him, but he deftly avoids her, determined to reach his goal—which is not me but the suitcase.
Jumping in, he stretches out on top of the partially folded clothes and looks up at me smugly. “That’s right,” his flat, furry face tells me. “You might fuck her, but I just marked my territory with white cat hair—and I have lots of it. Way more than you.”
“Ugh, Puffs, what have you done? Now your hair’s all over the place,” Emma groans, reaching into the suitcase to get the cat out. “Here, let’s get you into your carrier before you cause more trouble.”
She carries the beast away, and I swiftly fold the rest of the clothes, brushing off the cat hair as much as I can—which is very little. The white strands must have suckers on them, or superglue, because they cling to Emma’s clothes as tightly as if they’d been painted on.
By the time I’m done, Mr. Puffs is safely ensconced in a stiff, square bag with mesh sides that looks barely large enough to accommodate his furry body. Glaring at me through the front mesh, he attempts to swish his tail, but there’s no room and he meows threateningly instead.
