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The ball bounces on the end of the string and hits the pretty Persian in the face. She backs up on her hind legs to fight it. I can’t help but laugh. “Right. You’re like Ensley, too. The qualities she and her mother shared.”
Maria reenters the space. “Everyone’s checked out. Jenny is heading home. Vera is closing out the pharmacy space and diagnostic. Todd left ten minutes ago. You need me to help with the kitten?”
“Blood draw. Flea treatment. She’s perked up.”
Maria heads over to the kennel. “Look at her now. I’ll take care of it. Did you give her a name?”
Before I can think if it’s wise, I say, “Sasha.”
“Perfect,” Maria says. “Just as luxurious as her long white coat. At least once we’ve cleaned her up.”
I grunt in agreement and head to my office. I have paperwork to do.
When I’m seated at my desk, I sort through the mail, tossing half of it. Nothing important there.
I pull up my email and scan the subject lines. Most of it is pure junk, sales pitches and vendors.
But my gaze pauses on one.
Sender: Ensley James
Chapter 7
ENSLEY
I shouldn’t have done it.
But Drew’s address was right there in the group email about the wedding.
He thinks he can blow me off after what happened, but I won’t let him. Maybe all those other women he humped and dumped could let it go, but not me.
I’m like a Chihuahua with a stuffed rat in its mouth.
I’m gonna hold on like it’s my very last rat.
I crafted my first message to him carefully, considering his known caveman communication style. I made it sound like we’ve been talking all along, and I expect it to continue.
Drew,
How did the rental place handle the return of your drenched tux? I had to give up on saving my dress. I cut out a square to put in my memory box for Ronnie’s wedding, not that I have any memories of it, and tossed the rest.
And I know you think I’m a bastion of positivity, but really—let’s plot revenge on Felicia.
Sincerely,
Dangerous Vixen Chick
I’m quite proud of it. It’s lighthearted and nonthreatening, and it ends with an invitation to work together for a common goal.
I head to work in one of my favorite pick-me-up outfits, a gold lamé jacket over a chic black dress I found on clearance. My gold boots click on the concrete as I cross the bank’s parking lot.
I live in an apartment with my baby sister, Tillie, who never gets up before noon because she’s a bartender. And I own the coolest vintage and thrifted clothes a girl could ask for.
Life is fine.
Even better if Drew Daniels writes me back. I got too close to putting the finish on my childhood crush to let it go now.
Farm to Market Bank and Trust isn’t open for customers yet, so I enter through the employee entrance, buzzing my way in with the code.
