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Hattie played team sports, but I hadn’t been good at them, so I stuck to clubs where getting hit by balls and potentially disappointing teammates wasn’t a problem.
Parker inserts himself into the group. He’s dressed up as . . . I’m not sure, but he’s shirtless and wearing a kilt. Maybe he’s a highland romance novel cover model. He gives me a once-over, his gaze lingering for a moment on my cleavage. “And who’s this?”
Teresa, who is standing beside me, links her arm with mine. “This is Kitty, Miles’s girlfriend.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Kitty? Oh shit. I didn’t recognize you. Maybe I should have, though. Bomb-ass costume, girl. Kitty, the Kitty Whisperer, dressed up as Catwoman.” He gives me a lopsided grin while nodding his appreciation.
“Wait a second. You’re Kitty, the Kitty Whisperer.” Teresa’s hold on my arm tightens.
And suddenly I’m bombarded with questions. Half the women in the circle apparently follow me on social media. And that picture Parker posted when we were moving Miles’s mother’s stuff got a lot of traction. My follower count has gone up by a good ten thousand or more since then, and I’ve gotten a couple new sponsorship opportunities. At first, I was shocked by the sheer volume of new followers, and of course there were a number of messages from guys making lewd comments. Which I expected, because I’m aware the name of my cat-sitting company is a euphemism. I didn’t make the connection until after the fact, and by then I was already established, and it was too late to change it.
Over the years I’ve gotten used to combing my posts for the juvenile kitty comments and deleting them, or responding with a polite redirect, letting them know that I’m not that kind of kitty whisperer and asking if they talk to their mothers with that mouth. That’s usually enough to shut them up. But I didn’t expect the mean ones about playing the game and elevating my social status with NHL players a decade younger than me. Maybe I should have, though. People jumped to conclusions that because Parker had his arm around me that I’d automatically jumped into bed with him. The women commenting were the worst, and extra catty.
There’s a sudden flurry of excitement as the women surround me for a group selfie. And of course, because I seem to be a divining rod for all four-legged animals, an adorable, chonky pug lumbers over to introduce himself. He jumps up, his paws on my thighs, and sniffs my crotch while we’re in the midst of another round of photos.
“Barnaby! Where are your manners! You know better than to do that!” Sadie, the host of the party, scolds him, while pulling him away. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s how they say hello.” Big dogs jumping up on me can be a bit much, but this guy is too small to knock me over.
A black-and-white tuxedo cat comes trotting down the stairs, almost the same size as the pug, probably because he heard his four-legged housemate getting scolded and wants to watch the show. He plunks himself down beside Barnaby, who’s busy looking very guilty for his behavior.
“And who is this little guy?”
“That’s Cleveland. These two are best friends or total enemies, depending on the time of day,” she informs me.
I’m asked all sorts of questions about my cat-sitting business, how I got started, how I’ve managed to make it a full-time job. I discover that a lot of them are involved with volunteer and charity organizations, many of them animal related. All of a sudden I’m being offered introductions and new opportunities I never could have imagined. And all for agreeing to come to a party. I try not to let the comments on that post Parker put up bother me, but I worry there will be more if I accept some of these generous offers. Although the potential benefit of being able to take care of more kitties in need probably outweighs the negative comments.
Miles sidles up next to me and apologizes for taking so long.
I smile up at him. “It’s okay. I’m having fun.”
Parker pops his head between ours and holds out his phone, snapping a quick selfie.
“Hey, careful what you post, okay?” Miles tells him.
“Sir, yes sir.” Parker salutes him and moves on to the next couple to do the same thing.
I frown, and he drops his head so his lips are at my ear. “Everyone thought he was dating you after that last post, and he’s getting himself a reputation for being a ladies’ man,” Miles explains. “I just don’t want any more negative attention for you.”
I turn into him and tip my chin up. “I can handle a little negative attention.”
His smile turns wry, and his hand settles on my hip. “I know you can, but it doesn’t mean you should have to.”
