“What are you doing?” she asks, coming up next to me as I take out three raggedy sweaters, two pairs of jeans, and a few of her better-looking tops. I’d give my left thumb to be allowed to buy her nicer clothes, but that’s not part of the deal we made.
Not yet, at least.
“I’m helping you pack,” I say, returning to the suitcase. Going down on one knee, I place the clothes on the suitcase top and begin to fold them. “You might want to grab some underwear, socks, pajamas, and anything else along those lines.”
There’s dead silence in response, and when I look up, I find Emma watching me with a narrowed stare. “That’s more than one night’s worth of clothes.” Her tone is dangerously even. “And I don’t need instructions on what to bring.”
Sensing a new battle, I rise to my feet. “I didn’t say you needed instructions. As to the quantity of clothes, why not bring more than you need? Just in case.”
“Because.” She crosses her arms over her chest, her pretty face set in stubborn lines.
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for an elaboration, but none comes my way. What does come my way is her cat. Specifically, the big one, Mr. Puffs.
Green eyes narrowed in perfect imitation of his owner’s expression, he stalks toward me, fluffy tail raised high.
“Puffs!” Emma grabs for him, but he deftly avoids her, determined to reach his goal—which is not me but the suitcase.
Jumping in, he stretches out on top of the partially folded clothes and looks up at me smugly. “That’s right,” his flat, furry face tells me. “You might fuck her, but I just marked my territory with white cat hair—and I have lots of it. Way more than you.”
“Ugh, Puffs, what have you done? Now your hair’s all over the place,” Emma groans, reaching into the suitcase to get the cat out. “Here, let’s get you into your carrier before you cause more trouble.”
She carries the beast away, and I swiftly fold the rest of the clothes, brushing off the cat hair as much as I can—which is very little. The white strands must have suckers on them, or superglue, because they cling to Emma’s clothes as tightly as if they’d been painted on.
By the time I’m done, Mr. Puffs is safely ensconced in a stiff, square bag with mesh sides that looks barely large enough to accommodate his furry body. Glaring at me through the front mesh, he attempts to swish his tail, but there’s no room and he meows threateningly instead.
“It’s okay, baby,” Emma coos, patting the side of the bag as she carries it toward the door. “We’re just going on a little overnight adventure. I’m not taking you to the vet, I promise.”
“Here, let me.” I take the carrier from her, since it looks heavy. But it’s lighter than I expected. I guess part of the cat’s size is all that fluffy fur. Ignoring his outraged yowling at the transfer, I ask, “Do you want me to take him out to the car?”
“Not yet. He’ll worry if he’s all alone there. Just set him down here.” She indicates a spot by the door. “If you’d like to help, maybe you can scoop the litter boxes and then take them to the car?”
I stare at her warily. “Scoop the litter boxes?” Does she mean pick them up or…?
“You know, if there are any clumps or anything…” At my horrified look, she rolls her eyes and says, “Never mind. You can finish packing my things, since you seem to know what I need. I’ll get the cats and their stuff ready to go.”
Blowing out a relieved breath, I set down Mr. Puffs and walk over to the dresser to grab Emma’s underwear and socks. As much as I want her at my place, I’m not sure I can handle picking up cat poop or whatever “scooping” entails. I’m not a neat freak—at least I don’t consider myself one—but I definitely like things to be clean and sanitary.
Thanks to my mother’s love affair with alcohol, I mopped up enough vomit and piss in my early years to last a lifetime.
Emma disappears into the bathroom, and I quickly pack whatever I think she might need over the next week. We can fight the one-night-or-longer battle later. Then I call Wilson, my driver, to come in and get the suitcase.
He’s already at the door when Emma emerges from the bathroom, carrying a plastic box filled with rocky sand—which is thankfully free of clumps.
“Here, give it to me.” I take the litter box from her—the thing is surprisingly heavy—and hand it to Wilson, then grab the suitcase myself and follow my driver out to the car, which is waiting by the curb. We load everything into the trunk, and I return to pick up whatever’s left. That turns out to be two more litter boxes (apparently, each cat requires its own) and two cat carriers, one with Mr. Puffs and the other—a bigger, plastic one—with the two smaller cats together.
“I haven’t taken the three of them out together since they were kittens,” Emma explains as I take both carriers from her after dealing with the litter boxes. “Usually, I only need to bring one or two to the vet at the same time. Luckily, Queen Elizabeth and Cottonball still fit into that one.” She nods toward the plastic carrier. “Normally, I use it to carry Mr. Puffs, since he’s so big.”
“Right.” I take the cats to the car while she locks up, and Wilson gets them situated in the back seat.
“Thank you,” I tell him when he straightens, and his normally expressionless face breaks into a smile.
“My pleasure, sir. Beautiful cats, if I may say so. I have a Persian of my own, but he’s gray, not white.”
I blink. I had no idea my reserved, seemingly emotionless driver had pets of any kind. “That’s nice. How long have you had him?”
“Oh,
