A little gold crown sparkled next to Ellie’s name, like she was cuddling royalty. The app had a scheduling page to book appointments with her, along with a “Get to Know the Cuddler” page that listed more about her.
Ellie’s Likes: Cats. Chocolate. Crocheting. Cuddling. Dance parties. Blanket burritos.
Ellie’s Dislikes: Wet socks. Rage bait. Soggy cereal.
Ellie’s Biggest Fears: Snakes. Heights. Sewers. Getting my shoelace stuck in an escalator.
Why would clients need to know their cuddler’s fears? This looked more like a dating app than anything professional.
The more I saw of her profile, the more I realized how foolish it’d be to hire a woman just because I’d slept well next to her.
With my mind made up, I swiped to close the app—but my thumb brushed one of the icons on Ellie’s profile, and a few cheery musical notes played. A bunch of colorful balloon hearts floated up from the bottom of the screen before a text box appeared:
A virtual unicorn plushie has been sent to Ellie Darling from Cade Westbrook. She’ll receive the item shortly. Thank you for supporting Sunshine Cuddle Services and have a sunshine-y day! <3
My blood ran cold.
“What the hell?” I murmured, staring at the pop-up with growing dread. There wasn’t a button to undo it, and I could only watch, frozen, as a virtual stuffed unicorn pranced across the screen before winking at me.
I’d never heard ofvirtual unicorn plushiesbefore, but couldn’t they add a simple confirmation box before sending one?
And now Ellie would know I’d looked up her profile.
… Fuck.
emergency session
. . .
Ellie
Ellie’s Guide to Professional Cuddling, Tip #5: Cuddle crises exist. Like any good emergency personnel, be prepared to get called into the field at any moment.
It’d been a long day.
Whiskey had woken me at the break of dawn by sitting on my face, then I’d spent the morning at my most loyal client’s house. Archie was an older widower who’d quickly grown bored of retirement and had a penchant for drinking spiked tea out on his terrace while yapping my ear off.
He was also quite the card shark and taught me every card game that’d ever existed. I’d gotten good enough at blackjack that the devil on my shoulder wanted me to try out Westport’s underground gambling dens to clear my debt. But the risk of digging myself into an even deeper hole stopped me from venturing down that road.
It took three buses to get to Whiskey’s vet appointment in the afternoon, and the verdict was…not good. By the time I made itto Sweetheart Treats Bakery to meet up with a friend, worry had coiled my stomach into knots.
I walked into the cozy shop with Whiskey riding comfortably in his backpack. A little bubble window let him look out at the world and judge everyone—two of his favorite things. But the bubble’s plastic didn’t block the strong smell of dogs that even a shop full of baked goods couldn’t cover up, so I was sure he’d duck down from the window to avoid the few customers browsing with their canine friends.
Sadie Reed, the bakery’s owner, balanced precariously on top of a tall ladder behind the counter. Her short arms barely reached the shelf she was stocking, and her tongue stuck out in concentration while she stretched to add another box to the display. The box matched her pink hair.
She was the one who’d convinced me to dye my hair, and now her husband referred to us as the Cotton Candy Duo thanks to her pink waves and my thick blue braid.
You’d never guess she was married to the guy who ran Westport’s mafia.
I’d met Sadie last year. Whiskey had just started a new game where he stole little knickknacks and hid them under his pillow, so I’d joined a local online forum to get advice on stopping the bad habit. Sadie’s stubborn German shepherd, Bear, also had a bad case of sticky paws. In the time since, neither of our lovable thieves had made much progress, but the support group had become my closest friends. We even hosted weekly Pet Bandits Anonymous meetings, though they mostly felt like an excuse to chat over ice cream and the occasional boxed wine.
We’d originally called ourselves Furry Bandits Anonymous, but that’d attracted an alarming number of people who didn’t actually own pets. After a few confusing in-person meetings where members showed up dressed in animal costumes with bandanas covering half their faces, we’d quietly rebranded.
I carefully shut the pink door behind me. “Hey, Sadie.”
“Ellie!” She beamed at me before scrambling down the ladder. Shrugging out of her light pink apron, she yelled to the back, “Fessy, will you man the counter for a bit, please?”
A grumbling teenage boy trudged through the swinging door from the back room—wearing a matching pink apron and looking like this was the last place on Earth he wanted to be. He glared at Sadie before taking up his post behind the register.
