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“You… trust me?”
“I do,” he said.
“Then I seriously question your judgment. Maybe the coffee I threw in your face gave you amnesia. I thought it smelled funny.”
“You may not like me, but I don’t believe you’re untrustworthy. The fact that you are so open with your dislike of me makes me trust you more. Everyone else pretends I’m not an asshole. Those are the ones I know are full of shit.”
I grinned at that. “Well, at least you’re aware of it. But what about that butler I just saw? Can’t he take care of your cat?”
“Jasper isn’t a butler.”
I made a skeptical face. “He just dresses like one and hovers around your fancy schmancy house?”
“Do you want the job or not?”
I made a show of hemming and hawing. “I’d need to check my very busy schedule. I’ve got work. Obligations. Contracts. Friends. A booming social life. Of course there are the many men who want a piece of this glorious package.”
Sebastian was watching me with narrowed eyes. “You’re seeing someone?” he asked.
“All that and me seeing someone was the part you couldn’t believe?” I snapped.
His jaw flexed. “An answer is what I’m looking for. Yes or no, Kenzie?”
“What’s in it for me?” I asked. “I’d pick up elephant poop for you if the deal was sweet enough. But if you’re hoping I’ll do this out of the good of my heart, then you’re crazy.”
“You get a free place to stay. You can work on that book I assume you’re writing. My people will keep the fridge stocked, the house clean, and you provided with any supplies you need.” He thought for a minute, then lifted his hand, waving it through the air. “And health insurance or any of that sort of thing. I’ll take care of it all. You’ll be completely free of responsibilities except for looking after Mr. Meatball.”
Considering I’d just lost my latest job stocking shelves at a bookstore, his offer was very tempting. I was about to have to abandon my lease as it was, and maybe this would give me the chance to forget about bills just for a few months and think about writing for a change. Still, I felt compelled not to agree quite yet.
“Who says I’m writing a book?”
“Sitting front row at a writer’s conference? Getting personally offended when an author says it’s a hopeless dream to get published?”
“I never told you I was sitting in the front row.”
Sebastian hesitated, but only for a fleeting moment. He regained his composure, continuing as if we never left the subject of his cat. “I can assure you. Cat sitting for me will give you more than enough time to work on your book.”
“I’m still struggling with the fact that you named your cat Mr. Meatball.”
“All that and you’re stuck on the cat’s name?” he asked.
I frowned. “Was that a playful quip, Mr. St. James?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
I folded my arms. “This all sounds too good to be true. What’s the catch?”
“The catch is that you’ll occasionally have to see me. I do live here from time to time.”
I sucked air through my teeth and made a show of wincing. “That’s a good point. Could be a deal-breaker.”
“Mr. Meatball can also be a little bit of a handful.”
“Like his owner, then,” I said, wishing my words didn’t make me picture all the wonderful handfuls of Sebastian I’d enjoyed during our little encounter at the conference.
“Consider it,” he said suddenly, heading for the door. “My offer stands for twenty-four hours. Oh, and I’ll send Mr. Meatball by so you two can get to know each other in the meantime.”
I stared after he’d closed the door. Was he serious? And why didn’t people just ever say my offer stands for a day? Two days? Did they think it sounded cooler to break it down by the hour?
It was about thirty minutes later when the doorknob to my room swung down roughly. There was a long pause, then it pushed open slowly and a very large, very overweight cat plodded into the room. It approached the bed and sat, looking up at me with huge green eyes on its smooshed little face.
“Uh, hi?” I said. “Mr. Meatball, I presume?”
Mr. Meatball looked at me like he was judging me for every stupid thing I’d ever done in my life. In other words, he was like every other cat I’d ever met.
“Well,” I said after a few tense moments of silence between us. “If Sebastian thought you were going to impress me, he was wrong. All you’re doing is sitting there. And opening the door?” I blew a raspberry. “I’ve seen cats online do way more than that.”
Mr. Meatball turned with a swoosh of his fluffy tail, flashed his butthole proudly, and hopped down to the floor with a heavy thud. As he pranced away, he started making a sound I assumed was supposed to be a meow. But it sounded like the little guy was trying to eat the sounds as they left his mouth, chewing through them until it sounded somewhere between baby babble and dying animals.
