Faking It with the Frenemy

The cat looks at me adoringly, then places something on my left foot. It’s a dark brown, bullet-shaped corpse with six disgusting legs folded like death traps. “Aaagh!”

I jump, my heart pumping a million beats a second. If I were a cat like Princess, I would’ve gone through the hallway ceiling.

I kick hard, trying to dislodge the roach on my toes. It gets flung away, along with my flip-flop, creating twin arcs through the still hall air. I stare down at my toes to make sure there aren’t any roach flakes, revulsion shuddering through me. I have to disinfect them now, but only because I can’t cut them off and regrow them.

I look down at the hall, wondering what disgusting detritus lurks on the floor. You never know. There might be finely ground roach powder all over.

Princess is mewling, sounding particularly displeased. But it isn’t the poor feline’s fault. She’s just being a cat, and probably doesn’t even know that she’s being set up by Wyatt.

Yeah, it’s far-fetched, but there’s no other rational explanation. Why else would his cat bring me bugs? Cats give bugs to their owners, not their neighbors!

I hop on my right foot toward my door, which is really hard in a flip-flop. When I manage to get inside my apartment, I slam the door shut in Princess’s face in case she’s going to cough up a hairball full of dead tarantulas or something.

Champ rushes over and buries his nose in my crotch. I move him out of the way, take off my other shoe and hop toward the bathroom. He follows, tail wagging and completely clueless as to how traumatized I am and how much I need a drink right now.

But first things first.

Under the sink, I find a first-aid kit and a brand-new bottle of rubbing alcohol. I dump it all over my contaminated toes, then wait for the roach germs to die a horrible death. I can almost hear the screams.

One. Two. Three…

When I hit one hundred, I run warm water over my foot, then wash it with extra care with antibacterial soap.

Three times.

Just to be sure.

Afterward, I dry my foot and stare at the towel. Maybe I should throw it away. Not because it’s contaminated, but because it feels gross. On the other hand, it’s a damn good towel. Argh, the inner conflict! Maybe I can wash it with extra bleach. It’s white, after all.

I finally go back out to the living room, walking gingerly, and plop down on my couch. A long, hard sigh escapes my parted lips, and Champ tries to lick my freshly washed toes.

“Don’t!” I say. “They touched a cockroach, like, two seconds ago.”

He looks at me, then gives me a doggy smile and hops up on the couch, sidling next to me. I hug him, burying my face in his fur.

Damn ambush. I totally didn’t that coming.

There’s only one explanation for this. Wyatt. He must’ve trained Princess. He’s dropped roaches and frogs on me before. He might feel like he’s too old to do it himself now, but his cat… It isn’t easy to get a cat to what you want, but if you’re determined, it’s possible. Maybe even easy, if you’re as evilly super-powered as Wyatt. He made me tingle and think about that damned kiss for days. He can totally control a pussy…

A cat. A cat, dammit!

Ugh. And here I’ve been thinking he’s a changed man. More mature. Sexier. And nicer.

But Princess has set me straight. My mouth tightens. I wish I could change my mind about being his date to Geneva’s wedding. Under any other circumstances I would, but Vi shouldn’t have to suffer because she drew a short straw in the parent lottery.

Twice.

Okay, no more overthinking, no more assigning desirable qualities to Wyatt. I’m going to put on my big-girl pants, go to the wedding, fake my congratulations to Geneva and whatever poor sucker she’s marrying—because God knows nobody deserves Geneva as a wife—get the damned statue, collect my five-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus and live happily ever after.

The end.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Kim

Since I don’t have to work, on Monday I start my day lazily. After sleeping in for half an hour, I select jeans, then, after some deliberation, pull out a red T-shirt from my closet. Wyatt doesn’t think red is my color, but that just shows he’s color-blind.

I grab Champ’s leash and we head out the door. Nose to the ground, he finds another bug present in the hall and immediately consumes it. Hopefully it wasn’t another roach or, God forbid, a tarantula. I rub his head, grateful he’s keeping me safe. “You’re such a smart, brave, wonderful boy.”