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I turn down Pebble Street and park in front of Prince Francis’s house. Miles’s car is already in the driveway. I take a deep breath and tamp down the surge of irritation that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I’ve texted Miles with updates on Prince Francis while he’s been away, as I generally do with all my clients, sending daily photo updates—upon his request, which surprised me. At least until I learned they were for his mother. I keep my messages brief and to the point. Especially since I’ve had that stupid football dream basically every night. The most annoying part is that every time I have it, the outfits I start out in become increasingly outlandish. Last night I was wearing skimpy lace lingerie and a helmet, and that was it. I will admit, Dream Me rocked that lingerie.
I’ve never been physically attracted to someone I strongly dislike before, and I find it extra conflicting. My body doesn’t seem to care that he’s a dog-loving, cat-hating jerk. It seems to think all that matters is ticking my physical attraction boxes.
“You can do this. You can handle dealing with an attractive jerk. Pretend he’s Mr. Potato Head if you need to. Remember, he’s probably the kind of guy who toots and blames it on his dog. Also, do not draw your water gun without warning this time. And if he tackles you again, it’s probably a sign that you should stop caring for his mother’s cat, no matter how much you like him. The cat, obviously.” My recurring dream comes back in annoying flashes. “Or maybe it means he wants to make out with you.” I frown at my reflection in the rearview mirror. “This whole opposites-attract fantasy stops here, Kitty.”
I leave the safety of my car and avoid tripping on the curb on the way to the front door. Today I knock, because Miles is here. I hear a shout from inside the house to let myself in, so I do.
I find Miles in the living room standing in front of the fireplace, several boxes at his feet. He’s wearing yellow rubber kitchen gloves, which seems odd, until he picks up a gnome and a head pops up between a Christmas gnome and an Easter one. Prince Francis hisses, then swats Miles’s hand. He grabs the gnome with two clawed paws and bites its butt. I bite my lip to stifle a laugh.
“Seriously man, you need to chill out.” Miles releases the gnome.
Prince Francis takes the opportunity to wrap his entire body around the little gnome and rolls onto his back, doing some bicycle kicks, which in turn knocks three gnomes off the mantel. Prince Francis nearly falls off the ledge himself, but catches his balance before he joins the gnomes on the floor.
“Some cat is in a frisky mood,” I observe. I’m talking to Prince Francis, not Miles, but he must not realize that.
“Every time I try to put something in a box, he attacks me or the object. I tried to corral him into one of the bedrooms, but he’s about as herdable as a squirrel. It’s making this whole packing shit pretty damn difficult.” He starts to run a hand through his hair, but stops when he remembers he’s wearing rubber gloves.
Packing indicates moving, which means the situation with his mom might be more serious than I realized. “Is your mother okay?”
“It’s looking a lot like she’ll need full-time care. The doctors are saying her dementia is far too advanced for her to keep living alone.” His shoulders curl forward, and he strips one glove off his hand and wipes it on his jeans, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, my mother’s mental state isn’t your problem.”
As frustrating as dealing with Miles has been, I do have a heart, and based on his expression, his seems bruised over all of this. I set aside my feelings and try to put myself in his shoes. Taking care of his mother’s cat while she’s in the hospital, not knowing what the situation is going to look like when she’s released. Maybe his disdain for Prince Francis has more to do with the situation than it does the actual cat. “That can’t be an easy thing to deal with.”
He flips the gnome over in his hands. “I didn’t realize that someone her age could decline this quickly. I thought maybe she could have a personal support worker stop by a few times a week, but the doctors are telling me she’s likely to wander off again. She’s lucky the police found her and something more serious didn’t happen.” He drops the gnome in the box. “Anyway, I started looking at homes yesterday, but there’s a lot to take into consideration. And I can’t have this freaking cat knocking crap off the shelves all the time. He’s bound to step on broken glass, and that’s another expensive problem to fix.”
