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My heart was getting melty until that last statement.
He blows out a breath. “I realize that I sound like a d-bag when I say things like that. And you should probably consider raising your rates since I’m using you like a freaking therapist, but I went to the hospital this afternoon and they gave me the news, and then I came here and found this mess.”
And I’m back to being melty. If I were in the same predicament as Miles, I don’t know that I’d present the best version of myself either. So I set aside my negative feelings and press my empathy button. “The therapy session is on the house. This time, anyway.”
He gives me a sidelong glance and smirks a little.
Prince Francis does a butt wiggle and prance, then launches himself onto the arm of the couch and bounces to the floor, weaving between my feet with a purr.
Miles gives Prince Francis the stink-eye. “Oh I see how it is. A pretty lady shows up, and you’re all romance and seduction.”
I choke back a laugh and make a squeaky sound instead. Do not get all swoony over an offhand compliment, Kitty. “He associates me with food and pets, and he associates you with change,” I explain. “It has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with food.”
“Maybe I should start bringing him snacks, so our mutual loathing comes down a few notches.” Miles sneezes into the crook of his arm.
I hold out a baggie full of treats. “It couldn’t hurt. Why don’t you give him some of these, and I can find some of his toys to distract him while you pack?”
His eyes flare, like he’s surprised by the offer. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
He takes the baggie, and I tuck my hand back into the pocket of my cardigan. “I was planning to hang with Prince Francis anyway.” Besides, I’m not doing this for any reason other than Prince Francis’s well-being. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Prince Francis jumps up on his hind legs, claws digging into my jeans, until he realizes I’m no longer the holder of the treats. He redirects his affection, rubbing up against Miles’s leg and meowing loudly.
Miles opens the bag and makes a face, probably because the treats don’t smell all that great. Although dog food doesn’t smell any better. He crouches and holds out a treat in his palm, but leans away from Prince Francis, as if he’s expecting an attack.
Prince Francis paws at the treat a couple of times before he decides it’s safe, swats it to the floor, and gobbles it up. Then he meows and rubs himself on Miles’s leg again. “If I’d known it was this easy to win him over, I would have fed him treats from day one.”
“It might have made your life easier. Can I use one of these?” I motion to an empty box.
“Knock yourself out.” He makes a face. “Not literally, though.”
“That seems to be your strong suit, not mine.” I tamp down the memory of the dreams I’ve been having, where I’m the one doing the tackling, not Miles.
While I try to keep my mind from wandering to inappropriate places, Miles feeds Prince Francis another treat, and I check under the furniture for his toys.
I poke a few holes in the side of the box and use some twine to create swinging toys for Prince Francis to play with. I also add catnip mice that I brought along today to give Prince Francis something to get excited about.
Once the cat play station is set up, I toss a couple of extra treats inside to entice Prince Francis. It does the trick, and a minute later he’s lying on his back, chewing on the catnip toy, meowing happily.
“They’re kind of like temperamental, slightly psychopathic dogs, aren’t they?” Miles stands with his hands on his hips, poking at his full bottom lip with his tongue. I really wish he were less attractive and also less cat intolerant. It would make being in his presence less frustrating.
“They’re not psychopaths. They’re independent.” I take a step toward the kitchen. “I should put out fresh food and change the litter box.”
“I already handled the litter. I was on the fence with how expensive that contraption is, but it’s way more convenient than managing it manually.”
“So you don’t think I’m trying to rip you off anymore?” I need to curb my catty comebacks. “The convenience factor is hard to beat, and it counts the number of times Prince Francis uses the litter, so you’ll know when it’s time to change it.” I motion to the shelves and soften my surly. “This looks like a big job to tackle on your own. Do you want some help?”
“It’s all right, I can handle it.” Miles bites the inside of his cheek, gaze darting from the box in front of me to the shelves.
