Page 40 of Betting on the Brainiac

Does she sound slightly disappointed by that? “Yeah.”

“But . . .” She does the bottom-lip-biting thing. “What if there’s a problem?”

Oh. She wasn’t disappointed about me not coming in tomorrow; she’s worried about solo cat-parenting. I give her a reassuring smile. “Call me. I’ll come over as soon as I can. Or Mrs. Lipsky. Or any of the rescues. But I’ll check on them through the camera, and you’ve got this. You’ve been great with them so far.”

“Thanks.”

We walk into the club in silence, but she stops short in the storage room, and I bump into her with a softoof. She turns and hooks her finger into my hoodie pocket. “I can call if there’s a problem?”

I look down at her. I think of her as tall, but she barely reaches my chin. Hers is tilted up, but she keeps her eyes down, studying the name of a different software company printed across my chest. I probably smell like cat, but her caramel scent is playing havoc with my brain.

“Madison,” I say, trying to keep my tone even and reassuring. Her eyes flick up to mine. “Of course. I’m not a delinquent cat dad. If they seem off at any point this weekend, I’ll bring them back to my place. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tomorrow night is going to be pretty late for you, isn’t it? With the mask thing or whatever?”

“Two AM at least.”

“I’ll come check on them Saturday morning. That way you only have to come in for your regular shift that night. And I’ll make sure you can check the camera on your phone too. Does that help?”

She nods and steps back. “It does.”

I wish I hadn’t done quite such a good job of reassuring her. But it’s too late. There are no slender fingers plucking at my hoodie pocket, and the caramel scent is already fading.

Chapter Fifteen

Oliver

Matt may stab mewith his chopsticks if I glance at my watch again, but I can’t help it. Our investors took us out for dinner and chose an upscale sushi place on Lamar. The food is incredible. The conversation seems to be going well. It has all day, but I’m tired of talking. One hour of social talking feels more like three hours of coding, and we didn’t even get here until around 8:00.

I need some recharging time, and Madison hasn’t texted with a kitten update since around 5:00, and . . .

I check my phone. The kittens are sleeping, gray and white blobs in a pile, but the club is opening and the music will start.

The VC guys haven’t called for more food in at least twenty minutes, so this must be winding down. I’ll be able to check on the Catty Shack—I fight a wince at the dad joke. I can check on the kitten shed and go home.

Matt notices and takes pity. “Gentlemen, let me get this next round, but we need to let Oliver go home. He needs to sleep so his brain can keep writing the code that will make us rich.”

They all laugh, and a quick glance between us says Matt thinks that’s a good sign.

I stand and push in my chair. “Sorry to run like this, gentlemen. I get antsy when I’m separated from my keyboard too long.” Also, I’m tired of being in my business clothes. I’m wearing a lightweight gray-checked blazer over a nice shirt. Same cut as a T-shirt but not cotton. Nice black pants and a black leather Chelsea boot finish it off. I dress well when I need to. I even like it, usually. But I don’t know any guy who likes staying in a jacket all day, and I’m definitely ready to switch back to some Jordans.

One of the investors stands to shake my hand and clap me on the back. “My kind of nerd, young fella. Based on what we saw today, you and that keyboard are doing some good work.”

“It takes a village,” I say.

“But you’re its architect,” Matt says. “You’ve earned some sleep. Get out of here. Go home and crash.”

I get my car back from the valet and drive to Gatsby’s. I pull into the rear, but it’s packed, and I double-park, knowing I’ll be in and out before any of the staff leave for the night.

The club is loud, louder than I expect, but it’s mainly from the music pouring out of the entrance and drifting around to the back. The thump of the bass is about the same. I open the shed and slip in, setting off the light. Glad to see it’s working fine. The cats have rejected the weird cat cave, instead lolling in the center of the blanket on the floor. Tabitha makes a loud sound between a meow and a purr. YouTube remains undefeated in answering every question I have about cats, so I’m going to have to listen to videos of cat sounds to decode Tabitha’s, but she doesn’t seem upset. Maybe that was hello?

They’re all acting normally, meaning the kittens are out cold. Milk drunk, probably. It smells like kittens with a touch of litterbox, but it’s been worse, so the self-cleaning cat poop robot must be doing its job. I’ll make sure to bring new pee mats in the morning and switch these soiled ones out, but for the most part, Tabitha does a good job of grooming them so they’re not gunky.

I settle down beside them, regretting even more that I’m not in jeans or joggers, and pick up one of the sleeping tabby kittens. It mewls and its whiskers quiver, but it settles down as soon as I rest it against my chest. I examine each of them for a few minutes, and if someone thinks that looks like cuddling, they’re obviously not a kitten expert like I am now.

When the first two I held start doing some squirming and rooting, Tabitha slinks forward and lies down. She gives me a long look and a blink, then watches the babies wave their heads around cluelessly. They’re still gaining weight—Madison reported a good weigh-in this afternoon. But they always latch on faster with help, so I line them all up with their mama’s belly and leave them to feed.

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