Page 10 of Faking It with the Firefighter

ABIGAIL

One of thegood things about being a single, independent adult was that I could decide exactly what kind of hostess I wanted to be. As the evening of my favorite bi-weekly ritual rolled around, I was a “dump chips into a bowl and call it a day” kind of hostess, with a dash of “provide ample amounts of booze to make up for it” on the side. My guests for the evening didn’t seem to mind.

It was my turn to host Hooker’s Paradise, a crocheting club that had turned into a gossip session I looked forward to every two weeks. When we were teenagers, Charlie had begged me to come along to save her from the boredom of the meetup. Her mom was an avid crocheter, and we were too-cool-for-school teens who wanted nothing to do with it. As time went on, our attitudes changed, and now the two of us, along with Sophie, were in the regular rotation to host the event.

Minnie, a fifty-something-year-old public servant who worked at Town Hall, crunchedon a BBQ-flavored chip then slugged back the gin and tonic I’d prepared for her. “You know,” she said, ignoring the ball of yarn in her lap, “a cat isn’t a terrible idea.”

Minnie was one of the three older ladies who attended Hooker’s Paradise. She liked bright red lipstick and talking smack about people she thought deserved it (and a lot of people deserved it). I wanted to be her when I grew up.

I blinked over at her, a glass of wine dangling between my fingers. “You think it’s time?”

She shot me a look. Her arched brow answered my question and then some. Of course it was time: time to put the cat back into crazy cat lady. It had been a long time since I’d had a feline friend. When I was four, my mom brought in a stray black cat. I called him Mr. Kitty, because I’ve never claimed to be creative. He immediately made himself at home, drank milk from one of my little bowls, and slept at the foot of my bed for four nights straight. I thought I was the luckiest little girl in the whole world.

But that fifth night, he never came to the foot of my bed. It turned out that my father brought him to the shelter because Gabe broke out in a rash after days of watery eyes and scratching his face. A classic cat allergy. That’s how protective Gabe was—he’d even find a way to keep a male cat away from me.

But he wasn’t the only one. My ex also forbade me from getting a cat because of a so-called allergy. But knowing him, a guy who hardly sneezed during pollen season, it was really about keeping fur off of his suits. He claimed that no one successful walked around with cat hair on their clothes. That’s when I said to him, “Tell that to Taylor Swift.”

He put his foot down on the subject like he did with many. He was an attorney—it wasn’t always easy winning an argument with him. After that, I sort of gave up on the idea.

Until now.

I glanced around at the others—white-haired, silent Ida, who had completed more rows than all of us put together; terrifying and multiple-times divorced Evelyn, who splashed a little whiskey in her hot tea cup; Charlie, who brushed crumbs from Sophie’s homemade cookies off her mouth; and of course Sophie, who just offered a supportive smile. They all had the same look in their eyes—time to get that kitty cat.

“Okay, I’ll get a cat,” I declared, and they all cheered. My heart swelled. A little purring motor to keep my feet warm at night. What could be better? I lifted my glass of wine—and paused, frowning. “Where do I even find one? Are there cats-for-sale listings online?”

Charlie huffed a laugh. “It’s not like real estate.”

“You can come by the shelter. We get cats in every week. Really sweet ones too,” Sophie offered. “Right now there’s an absolute darling tuxedo who’s just waiting to find the right human. I think he’d like you! We’ve named him Winston.” Sophie beamed at me, sweet as the pie she made daily for her café. Not only did she make the best pastries in town at Magnolia Café, but she also volunteered at the animal shelter.

People often joked about how in the world the two of us ever ended up being friends, to which I always responded, “She just has a thing for strays, I guess!” It never failed to make them laugh and to help me resist the urge to slug them in the face for being so rude. So I guess it was kind of surprising we were friends, after all.

Sophie looked at the half-done crocheted pillow cover lying over her knees as she shook her head. “Sometimes it feels impossible not to adopt them all. But Twinkle Toes the Third is still as unsociable as ever, so I can’t welcome anyone new to my house.”

“Well, I’m only in the market for one, and Winston sounds like a catch,” I said, and my phone buzzed next to my thigh. It wasn’t unusual; my phone rang a lot. Came with the territory of being a successful realtor in a town going through a boom. I scooted the tangled yarn off my lap to check the screen, but it wasn’t a prospective buyer or a client in need of reassurance. It was Rex. For some inexplicable reason, my pulse sped up. I flicked a glance up at the group.

Ida was diligently crocheting. Evelyn was knitting (the traitor) and drinking her boozy tea. Charlie was reaching for another cookie, and Sophie had returned to her pillow cover.

But Minnie was looking at me, because she could sense juicy gossip like a bloodhound chasing after a fat, terrified pheasant.

“You going to answer that?” Minnie asked, a devilish twinkle in her eyes. Yeah, she’d seen the name on the screen. Dang it.

Answer a call from Rex Montgomery in the middle of Hooker’s Paradise? No, that wasn’t a good idea. I hadn’t told the ladies about my little agreement with my brother’s best friend. And if I could get away with it, they wouldn’t hear a whisper about it until after the wedding was over.

“No, it’s not important,” I said and silenced the call. That’s when I saw he’d called two other times in the last hour. Frowning, I opened my call log to double-check. Even with this little scheme, that didn’t seem like him. He must have butt-dialed me or something. And just as I was about to tuck my phone away, it rang again.

Rex. That flutter in my chest sped up, which was ridiculous. Was something wrong? Did he want to cancel? Why did that make me feel like curling up into a ball under my duvet for the next three days?

“Who’s calling you?” Charlie asked.

I swallowed hard, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen. “Um, no one.” I silenced the call again and shoved it between the couch cushions. There. Rex, or his butt, was just going to have to wait.

Charlie narrowed her eyes. She knew something was up. She always did. I grabbed my glass of wine and sucked down a few big swigs. As the alcohol warmed my chest, I settled back into the sofa, trying to think of a way to steer the conversation away from me for at least a few minutes.

I turned to the gray-haired woman sitting to my left. “Evelyn,” I started, “I heard a rumor that you killed your third ex-husband.”

Ida snorted.

Evelyn arched her brows. “Now, where’d you hear that?”

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