Page 61 of Judge's Mercy

“What are you going to name him?”

“I don’t know. Any suggestions?”

“Harley?”

“Hmm. . . what about Ryder?”

“That’s actually perfect.” I point to the two tote bags I left by the door. “There’s a litter box, litter, some food, food bowls, and I don’t fuckin’ know what else in here. I just told the lady at the pet store to give me everything a kitten needs. At one point, I saw her put live grass in here. No idea why.”

“Thank you, Judge,” she says, shooting a smile my way. A surge of determination shoots through me as I realize there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to earn her praise.

“You’re welcome.” I rub my hands together. “Hungry?”

“Actually, yes.” She brings the kitten to the table and sits across from me. It’s the first time she hasn’t snagged the food and eaten it on the couch with her nose buried in her phone. If I’d known a kitten would get me this reaction, I would’ve given her one days ago.

“Fries or onion rings?”

“Half and half.”

I grin and dump half the fries and rings on her spread burger wrapper. “Ranch?”

“I grew up in Utah. Ranch is basically a food group for me.”

I pull a giant stack of the sauce out of the bag and set it in front of her. “Knew you’d say that.”

She studies me while I get myself sorted. The intensity of her stare is palpable, as if she’s trying to read my thoughts. She’s been so skittish around me lately that I resist the urge to call her out on it. So instead, I unwrap my soy protein burger and savor the first bite.

“You really know me, huh?” She cocks her head pensively.

“What?” I ask through a mouthful of burger.

Instead of repeating herself, she asks, “What’s my favorite color?”

“Green, but lately I’m thinking it’s black.” I motion to her head to toe black outfit.

“What’s my favorite food?”

“Pizza dipped in ranch, which makes me sick when you eat it, by the way.”

“What book am I reading right now?”

“Les Misérables, which confused me at first because you strike me as more of a contemporary reader. It’s been so long since I’ve read it that I couldn’t remember the details to figure out what would make you pick up that specific book. But then I reread it, and now I know it’s because Jean Valjean has such an incredible redemption?—”

She claps her hands, scaring the kitten and shutting me up. “This isn’t book club.”

“Sorry.”

“What shampoo do I use?”

I wrinkle my brow, confused by her line of questioning. “I don’t know the brand, but you once told me it was vanilla and cashmere scented. Whatever it is, it smells am?—”

“What’s my favorite TV show?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just tell me.”

“Depends on your mood, though I’m pretty certain you don’t watch TV at all. You just turn it on so you don’t have to talk to me and so you can sit with your own thoughts.” Her expression is unreadable, and I can’t tell if she looks happy or sad or what.

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