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With a smile, I got up from the bench and headed back to the large bedroom. I practically ran into Sebastian, who was tightening the towel around his waist. He was still topless, and even more exquisite up close.
I froze by the double doors that led to the garden. Sebastian’s back was to me, and in a blind panic, I ducked back out into the garden where he wouldn’t see me. Shit. Of course the biggest bedroom with the most impressive garden was the master bedroom. And of course he’d come to it when he finished a swim and needed to clean up.
I briefly considered yelling “boo” to see the look on his face. But I had just been thinking how much I was going to enjoy this gig, however long it may last. I also hadn’t considered how awkward it would be to run into him if he was still half-naked.
I hesitated with my back to the wall. If he didn’t come out to the garden, there was no chance he’d see me. I could just wait here until he left.
I heard him sigh and then the sound of his weight collapsing onto the bed.
Shit.
A few moments later, his phone rang.
“What is it?” He asked.
There was a long pause.
“I’ve told you to stop fucking asking. If I make progress on the book, you’d be the first to know.”
That answers my question. Along with a billion other people, I’d been hoping Sebastian St. James was taking so long to write his next book because it was a huge magnum opus. It sounded more like he had writer’s block. I briefly thought how many people would’ve lost their minds to hear what I’d just heard. I guessed that was also why he’d gotten so pissy when I asked to proof his work in progress.
“They can sue me for breach of contract if they want,” he growled. “I don’t really give a shit. If I finish it, every publisher in the world is going to be at each other’s throats to get their hands on it. And no threats are going to make the thing write itself. Don’t any of you get that?” Sebastian sighed. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Listen, I hired another cat sitter. Yeah,” he said, after a brief delay. “Another one. And I’m going to a writer’s retreat next week. Maybe I’ll scrap together some chapters for them there.”
Another cat sitter? I didn’t realize this wasn’t his first time trying to fill the position. But given his attitude towards me already, I wasn’t shocked that he was having trouble keeping people around, even with the amazing house.
“It’s not me,” he said. “The sort of people who are willing to take a job like this aren’t exactly stable. Think about it. Cat sitting for a stranger? Half of them are stalkers. The other half are personal failures just trying to cash in on the free place to stay.”
Offense taken, I thought, considering I kinda sorta fell into both categories. What was it with me and falling into every damn category imaginable, lately?
There was a short pause. “No, I’m not boarding Meatball. You know how he is. He’d never forgive me.”
I scrunched up my face. I couldn’t picture Sebastian St. James worrying about what his cat thought of him. Then again, maybe he really was as lonely as I’d been imagining when I wandered all the empty rooms here.
“No,” Sebastian said. “He’s my responsibility. Patricia made that very clear. If I sent him back to her, she’d send him to a kill shelter just to spite me.” There was a pause, and Sebastian chuckled darkly. “I wish I was kidding. But that cat is stuck with me, and I’m stuck with him.”
There was a short pause, then Sebastian sighed. “Fine. Put Dennis on.”
I waited for another long moment.
“I frankly don’t give a shit,” Sebastian said. His voice was tighter and choppier now. Whoever Dennis was, he didn’t seem to like them as much as the person he’d been talking to before. “If you are already hurting for money, you’re a dumbass. Embers should’ve set you up for life. I’ll have my next book when I have it. Put Nilla back on. We’re done here.”
Sebastian kept talking, but I didn’t hear a word of it because Mr. Meatball in all of his giant, overweight glory strolled out from behind a flowerpot. He regarded me with his cartoonishly big, perfectly round yellow eyes. If expressions could talk, his was screaming, “you are not worthy to stand in my presence.”
I’d once heard that the difference between cats and dogs was simple. Dogs think, “Wow, this person feeds me, gives me water, pets me, and shelters me... They must be God!” Cats think, “Wow, this person feeds me, gives me water, pets me, and shelters me... I must be God!”
