Page 68 of Relationship Goals

“How old do you think she is?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I think she’s at least six to eight weeks, but she’s malnourished.” Skin and bones.

“Little princess,” Abigail tells the cat, her tongue sticking out slightly in concentration as she runs the flea comb through the kitten’s now soapy fur. She scrapes the bugs off on the paper towel, not wavering no matter how many times she’s done this, as focused on the task at hand as I am. “We’re going to get you all fixed up. Will she need formula?”

“Honestly, we can probably offer her both—wet kitten food and formula. Calories are calories, so whatever she’ll eat. I think she must be older, or she would be in worse shape. Wouldn’t you, Princess?”

Princess makes a plaintive mewling sound, and Abigail huffs a small laugh.

“It’s okay, little girl, we’ll get you feeling better.”

We spend the next twenty minutes or so in relative quiet, each of us offering the beleaguered cat as much praise as possible and concentrating on the task at hand.

“I think we’ve gotten all of them,” Abigail finally says, and I nod.

“Agreed.”

“Wow, look how filthy the water is,” she adds. “You poor baby, don’t worry, you’re in good hands now. We’re going to take good care of you.”

“Grab the towel?” I ask, but she’s already moving, the towel I keep for my fosters in her hands. “Let’s get you dried off and warm,” I tell the kitten.

“I’ll plug the heating pad in,” she tells me, and I grin at her.

“That would be great.”

I concentrate on drying off the long-haired kitten, who’s stopped fighting and just stares at us both with wide, freaked-out eyes.

“Want me to try the treats?” Abigail’s already tearing into one of the tubes of cat treat.

“Yep. Just hold it out—” I stop, because Abigail’s already on it.

The cat hisses at the tube in its face.

We both laugh as she blinks, sniffing experimentally before licking once, then enthusiastically tearing into the food.

“That’s a good sign, right?” Abigail says quietly, grinning up at me like she’s won a prize.

God, this woman. “Your smile,” I say slowly.

“What is it? Do I have something in my teeth? Please tell me it’s not a flea.”

“It’s one of the best things I’ve seen all day.” I make myself stop talking. I cannot fall for Abigail, I cannot make this any harder on either of us than it already is.

“You’re the best thing I’ve seen all day,” she says softly, nudging me with her knee. It’s covered by a pair of the sexiest boots I’ve ever seen, and the only thing above it is the goddamn jersey I gave her.

“You look good, Abigail. In my number. And those boots.” My voice is slightly hoarse, and the kitten stops licking the treat to give me a wary look.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she says lightly, but her cheeks go pink beneath the light smattering of freckles.

We’re covered in cat fur and flea dirt and dish soap, but none of that shit matters, because Abigail is so close and I fucking want her.

I like the person she is on the inside, and I like how it matches who she is on the outside, too. I like that I know what I’m getting with her.

But it’s a bad idea.

Abigail clears her throat, and I realize I’ve been undressing her with my eyes while she feeds a fucking kitten in front of me.

I squeeze my eyes shut. What is fucking wrong with me? I need to make up my damn mind about her, about this fucked situation I’ve gotten myself into.

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