Rhage was sitting on the kitchen island, his bushy tail swinging to and fro as he watched me shuffle toward the coffeemaker.
“There’s food in the bowl,” I told the cat, placing my phone on the counter. “You can eat the dry kibble and it won’t hurt you.”
As I turned around, Rhage hopped off the island and pranced out into the living room, his furry butt high in the air. A second later I heard one of the thick pillar candles hit the floor and roll across it.
“Ass,” I muttered and then said louder, “You’re eating the food in the bowl.”
Another candle hit the floor.
I folded my arms across my chest. “Throwing a temper tantrum is not going to get you anywhere.”
There was a moment of silence and then the loud thump of the wooden candleholder joining the candles on the floor. Then the remote hit the floor, and I knew he’d move on to bigger and more fragile things, like the blue blown-glass bottles situated on the center of the coffee table.
“What a diva.”
Sighing, I pivoted around and went to the narrow pantry. I opened the door and grabbed a small can of wet cat food. The tinny sound of the lid peeling open was like ringing a damn dinner bell. Tiny cat paws scampered off the floors and Rhage came slipping and sliding into the small kitchen. I raised a brow as he crashed into his water bowl. Water sloshed over the side, spreading across the mat the bowls sat on.
Rhage stared up at me with yellow eyes, ears perked, and I’d swear, if I didn’t know better, the damn cat was smiling.
I was such a pushover.
Seriously.
My gaze drifted to where my phone sat. Grady’s laugh was . . . it was cute. Maybe I would call him back and take him up on his offer.
Maybe.
Later that day, after reading what had to be every article on Buzzfeed, I picked up my phone and called Grady.
And I made plans to see him next weekend, when he was back in town.
Chapter 5
I spent the rest of Saturday and most of Sunday absurdly proud of myself, because agreeing to go out with Grady again without Cam and Avery was a good step—a great step, because what else would I be doing?
Living like a hermit in my apartment, arguing with my asshole cat while trying not to drop ice cream on my Kindle and using my stomach as a table for my bowl? Yep. That sounded almost right.
Sunday night, I spent an ungodly amount of time going through my closet, plotting what I would wear on my first day at work at the Academy. That time was interrupted by a call from the mothership.
“Are you excited about tomorrow?” That was what Mom said when I answered the phone.
I grinned. “I am. I’m a little nervous. I’m trying to figure out what to wear.”
“Honey, it’s a training facility. You could probably wear jeans.”
“I cannot!” I shook my head as I rummaged through the stacks of black work pants and then eyed the skirts and dresses I never wore. “The staff in Philly don’t wear jeans. Unless that’s changed?”
“Your father owns the company. You can wear whatever you want,” she replied dryly.
That was not true, not even remotely. The fact that my father owned the company and the assistant-manager job had been created out of thin air was probably going to be an issue with some of the staff at Martinsburg, but I was trying not to dwell on it.
“So, how did your date with your friends go?” Mom asked, changing the subject.
“It was good.” I plucked out a pair of pants and held them to my chest. “Speaking of my date, you’ll never guess who I ran into.”
“Santa?”
I rolled my eyes. My mom was weird. Loved her, but she was so weird. “Um no. I ran into Brock.”
Mom was silent.
My earlier suspicion blossomed. “You didn’t happen to talk to him recently?”
There was a pause. “I talked to him about a week ago.”
I turned as Rhage darted in front of the closet door, chasing what I hoped was some invisible insect. “Did you tell him where I was Friday night?”
“No,” Mom said immediately. “I know how you feel about him. I wouldn’t tell him where to find you.”
That was a weird way of answering the question, but then Mom asked carefully, “Did you talk him?”
Walking out of the closet, I placed the pants on the chair by the door. “Yes. For a couple of minutes.”
“And . . . and how did that go?”
“It was okay,” I answered hesitantly, not wanting to give her any false hope that Brock and I were suddenly going to reconnect and become best friends forever. “Do you know why he was here?”
“So you guys talked and it was okay?” she asked instead. “Jillian, this is the first time you talked to him in how many years?”
“A lot of years, but do—”
“I’m sure it was more than okay,” she said. “I’m sure that there was probably a little part of you relieved to have actually spoken to him?”
I started to tell her “hell no,” but was there a part of me that was relieved? I wasn’t sure. What did I have to be relieved over?
“Honey, I know this is an old conversation, but you two were so close. From the moment your father brought him into the house, you were his little shadow. You thought the world of him at one point, and I know he still thinks that of you,” she said, and my free hand clenched into a ball so tight my knuckles ached. “So talking to him had to be more than okay. You were that friend to him, Jilly, and because of that, perhaps one day, you two will find your way back to each other.”