Page 6 of Forget Me Not

The girl rings up the man’s stuff and tells him the total, but even though I should totally leave, I stick around because . . . well, I don’t know. To thank him properly?

“Well, you’ll be making a bunch of stray cats very, very happy,” I say, my words coming out rushed due to the weird electricity coursing through me.

It’s strange . . . I don’t know this man, yet, for the first time in years, my body seems to remember it can find another person attractive.

Oh, what a fine time for this to happen.

He nods once, as if dismissing me. “Happy to be of service to you and your cats.”

Great. He probably thinks I’m some crazy cat woman, surrounded in my home by litter boxes and hair balls.

“Can you two flirt somewhere else?” Mr. Roberts—an old, crotchety man snaps from behind us and I jump, quickly grabbing the bag and hauling it up to me.

I was not flirting.

I turn to thank the mystery man again, but he’s already pushing past me, toothbrush in tow. I hurry after him, hoisting my cat food up in my arms and overworking my legs to keep up with him, but he doesn’t slow.

“I didn’t get to say thank you,” I pant, slightly out of breath because who the hell can run with a giant bag of cat food and not feel a thing? It’s only thirty pounds, but it may as well be three hundred. He probably wouldn’t even bat an eye, having grown used to lifting heavy lobster traps out of the Atlantic.

“You did.”

Did I?

“You shouldn’t feed the stray cats.”

“Oh, so they can’t be hungry, too?”

“You feed them, they make more. Then everyone else has to deal with your mess.”

Okay . . . he may be hot, but he’s an asshole.

“So? They can kill the mice.”

He raises a brow at me. “So, cats matter, but mice don’t?”

My temper flares and for a split-second, I debate throwing the bag of cat food at him and stalking off, badass movie heroine style, but I don’t. I need this cat food if I want to help Creamsicle. “Are you always this rude, or is today a special day?”

“Just pointing out the flaws in your line of thought.”

We reach the inn and I wonder if he’s staying here, but before I can find out, I’m spotted by Beth and beckoned to come around to the back.

Great. Our shipment from the mainland is probably here.

“Well, thanks again for the cat food,” I tell him because I know he’s getting annoyed with my thanking him. He stops, turning back to me with that same indifferent look, but those dark eyes remain. Almost like he’s . . . haunted by something.

“Maybe next time, you can insult my grandmother while you’re at it.”

Then, I turn and leave him standing on the sidewalk out in front of the inn. I have things to do that involve not getting berated by hot strangers.

He wants to be a flaming asshole.

Fine.

Two can play at that game.

“No, Gran. They were out of pistachios.”

“Well, Pap won’t like that.”

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