Page 33 of Betting on the Brainiac

“Thank you,” I tell him. “You didn’t have to do any of that—wake up with them all night, even help me with them yesterday. That was awesome of you.”

He gives me a slightly awkward smile and colors along his cheekbones. It’s pretty cute. I hadn’t paid much attention to him after assessing him that first day, but with some finessing, he has potential. His hair looks clean, probably because there’s no product in it, and it falls on his forehead without any clear style. It’s too long over his collar and ears too. It’s in that in-between stage where it’s both too long and too short. Maybe he’s forgotten to do anything besides brushing it in the last few months?

He's always in baggy hoodies, which makes sense, considering that a lot of Austin summer weather is spent in frigid air conditioning. But the hoodies emphasize his scrawniness. He’s picked the wrong style for his build. Same with his glasses—plain black plastic frames, more round than square, and too big. I have a theory a person can rock any haircut, style, or accessory if it’s an intentional choice and they wear it with confidence. But Oliver doesn’t look like he’s thought about any of it. Except his shoes.

He’s got a pretty regular rotation of high-end Nike sneakers. Today it’s the latest Travis Scott collab. It makes me think when he’s not on a killer deadline, he might have a surprising closet. But he’s in whatever guys call their messy bun era, and I get it.

A long silence has fallen between us. “So anyway, they seem like they’re eating fine?”

He nods. “We’ll know for sure when we weigh them this afternoon, but they’re healthy.”

“So now what?”

“It’s your call. I can take them back to my place again tonight.”

“No way. I’ve been feeling guilty since we left yesterday.”

“I don’t mind. I won’t have to get up with them tonight. I can’t do it indefinitely, but I can do it until we can find a rescue for them.”

“You are possibly the biggest sweetheart in the world, but still no. It’s probably not good for them to go back and forth like that anyway. Are they stable enough to stay here for a few days? If it’s only going to be us, I mean? It would give us time to find a good situation for them.”

He smiles at me, and it’s gentle with a touch of knowing. “Are you stalling so you get more kitten time?”

I duck my head to look at the floofs. The tuxedo one is squirming, done nursing but not ready to nap. I scoop him out and nestle him against my chest. “With these wiggle bums? Don’t be ridiculous.” Then I brush the tip of my nose against his black head, and he gives a tiny kitten sigh and settles down to fall asleep.

“Right. That would be crazy talk. Also, are you sure that’s a boy?”

“Yes.”

He tilts his head. “How?”

“Intuition.”

“Ah. I thought maybe you checked the goods.”

I look down at my kitten. “If you want to be all logical about it.” I gently maneuver it for a clear view. I blink and look up at Oliver. “If I don’t see anything, does that mean it’s a girl?”

“Probably.”

There’s something odd about his voice. It sounds sort of . . . hmm. And his face looks weird too. I squint, trying to pin it down, and then I get it. “Oliver?”

“Hmm?”

Yeah, that is a guy who is working very hard not to lose it. “Are you biting back a whole bunch of inappropriate jokes?”

He freezes, then nods.

“If you talk right now, are you going to start laughing and not be able to stop?”

Another rapid nod, with the corners of his mouth upturned and his face turning red.

“I’m going to give you one hundred billion bonus points for not making them, but you need to breathe. How about if you go ahead and laugh, and I won’t judge you for it?”

The first laugh rolls out of him on a hard gust of pent-up breath, and then he keeps going. He laughs until he’s holding his side, and every time he starts to wind down, he catches my eye and starts back up again.

It takes him a full two minutes to settle down, but I don’t mind. I like that he had enough class to keep the jokes to himself. Gross dudes make innuendos every time I’m on shift. Liquor always makes them think they’re smooth, but no. Definitely not. They give off strong ick.

When Oliver finally draws a steady breath, I raise an eyebrow at him. “All done?”

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