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“It’s okay, baby,” Emma coos, patting the side of the bag as she carries it toward the door. “We’re just going on a little overnight adventure. I’m not taking you to the vet, I promise.”
“Here, let me.” I take the carrier from her, since it looks heavy. But it’s lighter than I expected. I guess part of the cat’s size is all that fluffy fur. Ignoring his outraged yowling at the transfer, I ask, “Do you want me to take him out to the car?”
“Not yet. He’ll worry if he’s all alone there. Just set him down here.” She indicates a spot by the door. “If you’d like to help, maybe you can scoop the litter boxes and then take them to the car?”
I stare at her warily. “Scoop the litter boxes?” Does she mean pick them up or…?
“You know, if there are any clumps or anything…” At my horrified look, she rolls her eyes and says, “Never mind. You can finish packing my things, since you seem to know what I need. I’ll get the cats and their stuff ready to go.”
Blowing out a relieved breath, I set down Mr. Puffs and walk over to the dresser to grab Emma’s underwear and socks. As much as I want her at my place, I’m not sure I can handle picking up cat poop or whatever “scooping” entails. I’m not a neat freak—at least I don’t consider myself one—but I definitely like things to be clean and sanitary.
Thanks to my mother’s love affair with alcohol, I mopped up enough vomit and piss in my early years to last a lifetime.
Emma disappears into the bathroom, and I quickly pack whatever I think she might need over the next week. We can fight the one-night-or-longer battle later. Then I call Wilson, my driver, to come in and get the suitcase.
He’s already at the door when Emma emerges from the bathroom, carrying a plastic box filled with rocky sand—which is thankfully free of clumps.
“Here, give it to me.” I take the litter box from her—the thing is surprisingly heavy—and hand it to Wilson, then grab the suitcase myself and follow my driver out to the car, which is waiting by the curb. We load everything into the trunk, and I return to pick up whatever’s left. That turns out to be two more litter boxes (apparently, each cat requires its own) and two cat carriers, one with Mr. Puffs and the other—a bigger, plastic one—with the two smaller cats together.
“I haven’t taken the three of them out together since they were kittens,” Emma explains as I take both carriers from her after dealing with the litter boxes. “Usually, I only need to bring one or two to the vet at the same time. Luckily, Queen Elizabeth and Cottonball still fit into that one.” She nods toward the plastic carrier. “Normally, I use it to carry Mr. Puffs, since he’s so big.”
“Right.” I take the cats to the car while she locks up, and Wilson gets them situated in the back seat.
“Thank you,” I tell him when he straightens, and his normally expressionless face breaks into a smile.
“My pleasure, sir. Beautiful cats, if I may say so. I have a Persian of my own, but he’s gray, not white.”
I blink. I had no idea my reserved, seemingly emotionless driver had pets of any kind. “That’s nice. How long have you had him?”
“Oh, almost fifteen years. He’s getting up there in age, my cat. Sleeps most of the day, you know.”
I don’t know, having never been around cats, but I nod as if I can relate.
After all, I’m about to become a pet owner myself.
“All done,” Emma says, approaching the car. In her hands is a clear plastic bag with a few cans of cat food and toys. “We can go.”
“Good. Let’s go then.” And with one last look at Wilson, who’s beaming at us with uncharacteristic warmth, I usher Emma into the car.
20
Emma
I have no idea what I’m doing. None. By all rights, I should be home, settling back into my regular life and recovering from my intense Thanksgiving weekend with Marcus. Instead, I let him convince me to spend the night at his ridiculously fancy penthouse, and now I’m freaking out because I’m about to let my cats out of their carriers.
My cats, who haven’t been anywhere other than my apartment and the vet’s office in years.
What on earth was I thinking?
This is going to be a disaster.
“They can’t get into the pool, right?” I confirm for the second time, eyeing the thick glass wall behind the tall plants shielding the forty-foot-long rectangular pool from the rest of the apartment. “Because I don’t think they can swim and—”
“Geoffrey made sure the pool enclosure door is locked,” Marcus says, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he comes to stand in front of me. “I called him when we were on the way, remember?”
