Page 23 of Waiting Game

“Wow. How did you meet them?”

“You know what a billet family is?”

“Is that a military thing?”

“Well, ‘billet’ is, but not in this instance. When a kid in minor hockey gets selected, drafted, or traded to a team too far to commute from their hometown or, in the case of North American teens, country, they go and live with a family who’s trusted by the organization. Like, I’m from Saskatoon, but I went to stay with a billet family in Winnipeg.”

“That’s pretty neat.”

“It’s how I came to live with the Bu?—”

Cubert decides to live up to his name and attack my stool. I yelp when he manages to hook his claws into my favorite purple jeans and almost fall backward in response.

“Ah, shit,” she whines, but her instincts are wired for this because she jumps off her stool, and in seconds, the little bastard’s in her arms.

He’s also back to looking innocent as fuck.

I guess we have our confirmation that this is ‘tarot-card, tower-terrorist’ cat.

I crinkle my nose at him.

He hisses and spits at me.

“I’m so sorry, Cole. He didn’t like you ignoring him,” she mutters, dipping down to grab a hold of the beast when he attempts a second escape. Inadvertently, the move reveals another piece of ink on her upper thigh that’s a crescent moon with a cat perched on it. “Say hello.”

Warily, I wave at the cat. “Hey.”

I receive another hiss for my pains as I twist to look at the cuffs of my jeans.

She clucks her tongue at the cat but walks over to the nearest window. He shows us his butt-star then leaps from the windowsill into the night once she wedges it open.

“Safety, at last,” I joke.

“Told you he lived up to his name.” She stares at my jeans. “Did he rip them? I hope he didn’t. They’re really nice.”

I freeze.

Nice?

“You like them?” I sputter.

She hitches a shoulder. “They suit you.”

They suit me?

Unaware that she’s the only person who has ever said anything nice about my clothes, she takes a seat once she’s washed her hands.

Unaware that she’s sealed our freakin’ fate.

Hooked.

That’s me.

I’m so fucking screwed.

Because I need to change the subject before I start asking if she likes my bright Fanta-orange hoodie too, I point to the stack of pop cans I brought with me on the counter in front of her. “Pick your poison.”

She eyes the smorgasbord of soda. “Couldn’t decide what to buy?”

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