Page 13 of Just Say (Hell) No
“And that’s bad?”
She lifted the camera again. “I’m just telling you. You’re used to it working on women. It’s part of the subliminal message they get from you, along with the pheromones and the muscles and so forth. A fertility marker, like a woman’s low waist-to-hip ratio is for men, though more subtle, because women aren’t aware of it. That would be our prehistoric brains talking. But as I know about it, I can discount it.”
“Unless you decide you need a man with high testosterone.”Along with the pheromones and the muscles and so forth.That sounded positive.
“Which I don’t. So, you see…”
He sighed. “Always something. No joy in life without these obstacles in the way, though. As a high-testosterone man, that is.”
The contest begins,he thought.Too right, Mum.
That was when the kitten decided to go for territory unknown. She climbed straight up the side of his head, perched on top of it, her needle-sharp claws digging into his scalp, and let out her first meow.
She’d climbed the mountain, so she roared.
Was it still a win if you went home with a cat?
He wasfocused.He kept his eye on the ball and his mind on the job. He was single because relationships interfered with rugby, and vice versa. When his career was over, he’d turn his attention to the personal side. Not now. If anything, he needed to double down.
And yet he still seemed to be getting a cat.
Not just any cat. The spawn of the devil. A tiny gray ball of fur who’d decided he was her man, and she wasn’t going to let him go. What could you do, though, if you put her back in the box and she meowed at you piteously and tried to climb the pasteboard walls to get to you again? How about when you put your hand on her to soothe her distress, and she climbed straight up your arm, snuggled in behind your neck, and clung on like a limpet?
“I don’t like cats,” he told Nyree, picking her off again. “They don’t like me, either. You saw.”
Wait. This was meant to be the part of the evening where he overwhelmed her with his charm—and testosterone levels—and took her away for a drink, and then dinner. Instead, he was insulting animals. He was losing his grip on the plan.
“She’s not exactly a cat,” Nyree said. “That is to say, a cat’s not ‘a cat,’ any more than a dog’s ‘a dog.’ A Chihuahua isn’t a St. Bernard, is it? This isn’t a cat. She’s a Burmese. More like a dog, really.”
“This,” Marko informed her, feeling the claws piercing his skin for the twentieth time, “is not a dog. Not a Chihuahua. Not a St. Bernard. Not a bloody mastiff. This is acat.”
“An adorable kitten,” she said. “Who loves you.”
Thatwas the problem. That Nyree was looking at him with those eyes, and he knew that if he left the kitten here… Well, it wasn’t an option, that was all.
“I travel,” he offered in what he knew was a weak-ass final gasp doomed to failure, like when you were driving for the tryline in the eighty-first minute, the hooter long since sounded, twelve points down but still in there fighting for that lost cause, for some reason known only to men with hard heads, too much bloody-mindedness, and possibly an excess of testosterone. “What would I do with her for two weeks at a time?”
“You could leave her with me,” she said. “Although I’m sure she’ll pine for you. She’s a pushover, clearly. Just make sure she’s an indoor cat. There’s too much danger outdoors for her, and eventually, she’ll be too much danger herself to birds. New Zealand birds don’t have enough defense against predators.”
She was lecturing him. On his cat ownership. Which wasn’t happening. “No worries,” he said. “I know about birds. And I didn’t say I’d take her.”
“Oh,” Nyree said. “I thought you were going to. Never mind, then.”
The corners of her full mouth drooped. Bloodyhell.He couldn’t disappoint her. He couldn’t even seem to disappoint thekitten.He was getting soft, that was what.
“I didn’t say Iwouldn’ttake her,” he said. “Call it… call it a trial basis. I’m meant to let you photograph me twice. Not easy, but I’m going to do it anyway. Sunday morning, say, after the Chiefs match, as we’re playing at home? We could meet outdoors. Always good, photography-wise, right? You could bring whatever puppies you want me to hold, and make sure none of them come out with an enormous head. Afterwards, we could have breakfast. Work-related,” he added. You gave it everything you had. That was the only possible path.
Wait. She’d said, “You could leave her with me.” Which meant he’d be dropping the kitten off. And picking the kitten up. At Nyree’s place. Which meant a trial basis definitely worked. Suddenly, he felt much more cheerful about the whole idea.
She hesitated. Of course she did, now that he’d realized he wanted it. Bugger.
“Maybe you could bring Koti with you again on Sunday,” were the next unwelcome words out of her mouth. “If he wanted to meet a dog I know. I think he wants one but is nervous about it, and more shots of him would be good anyway. I barely got him today, for some reason.”
Bloody Koti James. Was there anyplace he kept his gorgeous self out of? Marko knew he was scowling. He couldn’t help it. “I’ll ask him.”
Koti would have an engagement, though, that didn’t allow for breakfast. Marko was sure of it. Even if he had to pay him to leave. Or push him into his car.
That was why, though, instead of charming—well, attempting to charm—Nyree over a drink the way he’d been planning, he was at PetStock in Glen Innes forty minutes later with a kitten on his neck, loading his trolley with kitten chow, cat litter, a “premium felt cat cave” lined with merino wool, and an enormous domed litter box with a special filter. And hesitating over a structure taller than himself, with platforms and perches and hidey-holes galore.
