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“Brought her to a shelter, and they said, if they didn’t find Cat a home quickly, they’d have to put her down due to the number of animals being brought in recently. Couldn’t let that happen.”
“As annoyed as I am that you’re an hour late to pick up?—”
“I was waiting for my ex to drop off my kids. She was a no-show. I’m sorry. I should have started with that.”
I try to come up with something to say, and he chuckles.
“How much do I owe for Cat?”
“You owe her a name, and the Saturday clinic price is fifty for spaying.”
“I was hoping my kids would be able to name Little Miss Drowsy.”
I shake my head and bite back a smile. “I think you just did.”
“Yeah.” He looks down at her. “Suits you right now.” He glances back up at me. “But last night, when I got home from the concert, she was nothing but chaos.” He lifts his chin. “Pretty sure I saw you there.”
My face immediately catches fire. “Um, I’m not sure?—”
“Nah, it was you.” He smirks as I try to recall seeing him, and then it hits me—he’s Tall, Dark, and Filthy. “Nothing wrong with letting your hair down and enjoying an adult night. Would love to have gotten the brunette’s number.”
“You ask her for it?” I ask, pushing the release form across the counter for his signature.
Smiling thoughtfully down at the kitten and shaking his head, he says, “She said if we ran into each other again, then she’d give it to me.”
“Then I guess you’ll get it then.”
Chuckling, he lays a pile of bills on the counter. “When last night gets brought up, let her know you have my name and number on file.”
I look down as he signs his name. “That’s fairly presumptuous, Charles Turner.”
“Nah, just know there’s gotta be sunshine after a shitty day.”
* * *
When I walk into O’Donnell’s Pub, both Fawna and Francesca call out to me at the same time, “You’re late.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I tap my feet on the mat before heading toward the bar. “Got stuck?—”
“Let me guess,” Francesca cuts me off. “Someone forgot they owned a puppy they’d dropped off at the ass crack of dawn on a Saturday morning to have major surgery that our friend performs for people every damn week at 1989 prices.”
I want to tell her who it was who was late, but not unless last night is brought up. Well, if the conversation doesn’t come up, then I’ll tell her before I leave.
“It’s for the fur babies,” I say as I slide onto a stool and Fawna pushes a flight of green beer across the bar. Her St. Patrick’s attempt was a bust. Clearly, we’re in for a full year of helping her make beer taste like something other than beer. “You can’t make me drink this. It’s barely noon.”
“A true friend would give me an opinion on which beer tastes greener.” She defends her actions and shames me in thirteen words.
I will not fold. “Green food coloring doesn’t have a taste.”
Francesca pulls the flight between us, giving me the sister up look. The same one she gives her own sister—her twin, who couldn’t be more different from her—Antoinette, when she’s around.
“Can I get something to soak up the beer?” I ask, wooden rectangle of different beers in front of me.
“Of course.” Fawna does a little victory shimmy as she heads toward the kitchen.
Francesca whispers, “We pick the same one, or we’re going to be lit by the time we leave here.”
Fawna walks out with two cups of soup and crackers. “Today’s special is beer cheese soup.”
