-4-
"Edward Masen Cullen, what in the hell do you think you're doing? You can't have that thing in the shop! What if people are allergic?" Rose wails as soon as I walk in the door with Pilot tucked under my arm.
That's what I named him. It's a type of Honda model. I wanted to name him after the car I found him under, but CR-V didn't sound right for a cat's name.
Alice insisted I shouldn't name him just yet, but I've already grown attached, much to my dismay. He's my buddy, and my buddy should have a name.
"What people, Rose? We haven't had any business in days. Even so, we can put him in the office while they're here. I wasn't about to leave him alone."
Pilot pads on over to my toolbox, sniffing around while I set down the bags of supplies I got for him. Litter box for here and home, food, dishes, toys. The little fucker is already spoiled as hell.
"Where did you even get a cat? You don't have a cat." Rose's hands fly up in what I can only assume is exasperation. Like a mom whose kid just brought home another pet.
"Looks like I do now. He was hunkered under a car out in the yard last night. I gave him some tuna, brought him in from the cold, took him to see Alice this morning to get this cut checked out, and she couldn't find the owner, so here we are."
"I already have too much to do to babysit a cat while you're working, Cub."
"He won't be no bother. He'll just hang around here, explore a bit. He's chill."
As if Pilot took that as a cue, he rubs up against Rose's legs, and I watch her melt a little right before my eyes.
"Hell, maybe I'll get ahold of Ben and have me draw up some new signs with Pilot as our little mascot," I wink.
Rose wrings her hands, fiddling with the wedding band she never took off even though she lost her husband nearly a decade ago.
"You said Alice couldn't find the owner? What does that mean, exactly?"
"That means he's microchipped, but the information isn't up to date. I figure if the owner cares about him, they'd have made sure it was."
"Cub, that's not necessarily true. Life happens, and people forget stuff all the time. Look at him; he's been taken care of. He's been loved." She rests her hand on my shoulder, the warmth seeping right through to pluck at my heartstrings.
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Look, I'll wait a bit. Get the word out that I found him. But if no one speaks up, he's mine." I surprise myself by the vehemence with which I defend him. It seems strange that I already care so much, but I'm not about to argue with it.
"That's all I'm saying," she holds her hands up in surrender, making her way back to her chair. "I'll post his picture on the local Facebook sites, too. See what we can scrounge up."
Something about it deflates me because I know we'll find his owner. Rose is right. He's been cared for, and someone out there loves him.
None of it was about to matter, though.
Cause just then, this hot little ball of sunshine and hurricane came flying in the front door of the shop, bringing the scent of peaches and smoke with her. The good kind of smoke, the kind that reminds you of barbecues and bonfires and falling in love under the stars.
Long, deep, dark brown hair blowing wild around her face with the winter wind, army green jacket that's not thick enough for this weather but hiding a figure I think I'll like, skin pale as porcelain.
She's gorgeous. Stunning with her full lips dark pink and slightly chapped.
And she's pissed as hell and heading my way.