Page 53 of Accidentally Amy

The cat meowed and came around the corner, a sweet little fluffer who headed straight for Blake as he lowered his big body to a deep squat and said, “Hey, bro.”

Blake scooped up the cat and stood, turning to look at me. He rubbed the cat’s head, and I stepped a little closer.

“Hey, Goodyear,” I said, reaching out a hand to pet him.

He hissed and made a little cat-growl noise, instantly backing me up.

“Told you,” Blake said, sounding pleased as he kept rubbing Goodyear’s head.

“It’s only because we just met,” I countered, rolling my eyes and pulling the tuna out of my hoodie. “He’ll love me soon enough.”

“Don’t bank on it.”

“Are you going to show me around your apartment or what?” I asked, waving the pouch of seafood around in hopes of a feline response.

“Oh, don’t be snarky,” he said, treating me to a full smile. “If he could see your face, I’m sure he’d love you.”

“He’ll love me anyway.” The cat seemed entirely unmoved by my fishy offering. “Where’s the kitchen?”

“Follow me.” Blake led me through a living room that had huge windows, a gorgeous buff-colored midcentury sofa, a wall of bookshelves, and a thick off-white area rug that looked like nap perfection.

“That view does not suck,” I muttered to myself, looking out at the city as I followed him.

When we walked into the kitchen, I had two thoughts.

The first: Blake was an entirely different kind of adult than I was. His kitchen was large and modern and didn’t have any random items sitting out. No empty Amazon boxes; no cans lined up on the counter, waiting to be recycled; and not a single dish was resting in the sink.

I needed a time machine so I could go back a few days and be mortified as he visited my small and not-pristine apartment.

The second: He had to have a cleaning service. There was just no way a young, busy guy had time to make his place shine quite that brightly.

I was a big believer in the five-second rule, but in Blake’s kitchen I’d go a full thirty.

“So this is where you’ll find their food.” He opened his chef-quality refrigerator and pointed to the bottom shelf. “The orange containers.”

“Is the color indicative of something? Is orange cat-specific?”

“No,” he said, pulling out a container and opening it.

“I thought maybe theOstood for something likeoh, no, it’s not for people.Oroops, this is horsemeat.”

That made his mouth kick up just a little. “Only for felines?”

“Exactly.”

He looked at me for a long second, his dark eyes all over my face, and I was about to ramble incoherently to ward off awkwardness, when he said, “The boys like their food warmed up—which I know is ridiculous, so spare me the mockery. I put it in this microwave for forty seconds.”

He gestured to the sink, and when I followed his finger, I saw that just to the left of it, under the counter, was a built-inmicrowave that looked old and crappy—it had a turn dial, for God’s sake. He opened the door, put in the food, and started the noisy old machine.

I raised my eyes to his in disbelief. “Do you…have a separate microwave for them?”

He gave a casual shrug and looked a little uncomfortable. “It felt wrong to cook cat food where you cook human food, so I bought an old microwave at Goodwill to use for their dinner.”

I couldn’tnotsmile at him, because he was beyond adorable. “Did you know that you’re a cat lady underneath your fancy suit?”

“I am not,” he said, flipping me off before taking out the food. I was impressed by his ability to hold an entire cat in his left hand while doing other things with his right.

“Oh, I think you are. This level of pet care is seriously—”

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