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God, it’s true. I’m officially the cat lady.
Okay, get yourself together, Megs. The world doesn’t owe you anything. You’ve gotta just be grateful for what you have, right?
I’m not usually like this. I’m usually optimistic and upbeat. Here’s the way I see it—there are two types of people in the world. Those who complain that they can’t see the sunshine through the rainclouds. And those who choose tobethe sunshine. Usually, I choose to be the sunshine. Usually. At the moment, I’m sort of struggling to wade my way through these rainclouds.
Dinner forgotten, I split up my unappealing sandwich and feed that to the cats, too. All the while, my phone is never far away. Though I know the day is over, and I’ve been long forgotten, I can’t help but hold out hope for a call.
Stuffing the last bite of cake into my face, I drift to the darkened front window where sheets of rain fall and distort my view of the neighborhood.
My eyes catch on movement at the house across the street. Jasper and his friends are having another party over there. Well, at leastsomebody’shaving fun tonight.
Cash owns that house. He bought it years ago when my former neighbors left town and put it up for sale. When I questioned why in the world he’d buy a house in Honey Hill, when he never plans to move back home, he told me that you could never have too much real estate in your portfolio.
Spoken like a true business tycoon.
Except now, his freeloading younger brother Jasper is living there, turning the quiet home into his personal playboy bachelor pad, since Cash rarely comes home anymore.
The cats finish their multi-course meal, and we end up snuggling on the couch. I flip on the TV and browse my way to the National Geographic Channel.
I glance at my phone again. Still nothing. No missed calls. Not even a text.
It just doesn’t make sense how after all these years that he’d forget.
Unless…
Unless he remembersexactlywhat today is and is freaked out that I’m going to hold him to our silly nuptial contract.
Oh my gosh—that’s even more embarrassing. Does he really think I’mthatpathetic? Now, all I want is to dig a hole in my back yard and hide out in it for the rest of my miserable days.
A documentary on tropical marine life plays as I distractedly pet the cats and scroll through my favorite clothing sites on my laptop.
I promised myself that I’d get my online shopping habit under control. But when I come across a T-shirt that says something about preferring to sleep next to a self-absorbed asshole that purrs instead of one who talks, I suddenly can’t resist treating myself to a birthday gift tonight.
Within a few clicks, I’m handing over my credit card information. And then I’m staring at a confirmation email ensuring me that the quirky T-shirt is on its way to my address. To fill the gaping emptiness in my life.
Yes, I’m being dramatic. I know.
As the cats both purr their contentment, I struggle to accept my single cat lady status. If this is the best part of my whole day, what does that say about my future? Hell, I’m only thirty. If I’m around seventy more years, well…I’m not even willing to do the math. That’s a lot of cats, and a lot of lonely nights.
A sudden strike of lightning and a crack of thunder sends the cats scampering off my lap and fleeing the room, desperate to save themselves.
Welp. That just confirms how much they care about their foster mom.
I might as well turn in for the night and stop the cats from shredding my bedding. But before I make it to the hall, a loud knock on my front door makes me jump. With a frown, I make my way across the living room and cautiously open the door.
I gasp.
A grumpy-faced Cash Westbrook is standing there, soaked to the bone and out of breath, looking as though he just finished a triathlon in a freaking downpour.His expensive shirt is drenched and plastered to his broad, strong chest. He has an oversized bouquet of balloons, a dripping wet cake box and a bunch of soggy plastic bags clutched in one of his enclosed fists.
My mouth flops open and closed several times as I struggle for what to say.
He swipes at the clump of wet hair matted to his forehead. He thrusts his dripping wet offering at me with a scowl. “Happy birthday, Buttercup.”
