He’s not the only one.
Mr. Pickles is nothappy to be woken up by the bright lights and pet store noises. His ears flicker, the tip of one torn from something. Who knows what he’s gotten into out in the wild?
When he puffs up like he’s about to bolt, I take him from Ivy. He relaxes against me, claws clinging to my sweatshirt. I pray they don’t slice through the material, but already know that’s wishful thinking.
We exchange a glance, then hurry to the cat section. Ivy spends far too long debating over the food.
I watch her, amused. I’ve faced hostile boardrooms with less anxiety than this cat food aisle.
“Get a cart. Grab one or two of each.”
She blinks at me.
“I’m buying.”
She grins, then hurries off for a cart. I wait, murmuring in the cat’s ear that he’s going to be fine. The tension leaves him like he understands and believes me.
Ivy scoops canned and dry food into the cart, then we move to the toys and bed section.
We end up finding a scratching post for him on the way to the register, plus a pale blue collar with gemstones (not my idea) and a litterbox that Ivy grabs, pulling the existing one out of the cart. “Too plain. Pickles has style.”
I snort but don’t argue.
After buying half the store (not really, but there’s enough stuff for ten cats in the cart), we head to the car with me still carrying the cat. I hand him to her so I can load the stuff in my car.
“I know a good vet. I’ll set up an appointment.” She bites her lip. “Do you think Drew could take us if you’re at work?”
I stare at her for a moment. “You don’t drive, do you?”
She blushes, shaking her head. For some reason, I think she looks cuter than hell.
“No problem. I’ll drive you.”
“But what if you’re working?”
“I have plenty of vacation time.” Practically all of it. I never use it. Even when I was consulting virtually before moving to Hollow Creek.
Her smile is like the sun coming out at night. Mr. Pickles’ head lifts like he feels it, too.
“Thank you.”
I finish loading the car, then step closer to her. My finger goes beneath her chin. “Anytime.”
For several beats, we just stand there, Mr. Pickles between us.
She shivers, a small smile on her lips.
I step back before I get carried away and open the door. She climbs in, but the look in her eyes…
Oh yeah. I’m in trouble.
And so is she.
The door closesbehind us with a soft, final click.
It sounds different when she’s with me. Like something has clicked into place that was always meant to be there.
I turn on one light. The house is dim, familiar in the way only lived-in spaces can be.
