Page 76 of Sawyer and the Bookworms

We’re so fucking nuts about her. This girl is our catnip.

I wonder what my cat will have to say about that.

We take another Uber, and the guys drop me off at the Book Café—reluctantly agreeing to drive on home.

“But we need to talk,” Roman says. “Don’t you want to talk about all the shit that went down today?”

I give him the excuse that I have to take over from Bee and then close up shop—which is true, by the way—but mainly, I need time to think on my own.

Also, I need to feed my cat. He probably thinks I’ve abandoned him to die of starvation. He can’t stand to see his food bowl empty. It gives him palpitations.

Thinking about Potato is a good distraction from obsessing about “all the shit that went down today” as Roman so eloquently put it: Brinlee as Baby Doll, the guys, and the attraction and chemistry going around.

Bee greets me with a bright smile from behind the bar. “Hey, there, stranger. Holding the fort, as you requested. It’s been a quiet evening.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, “you’re a lifesaver. Gimme just five more minutes to feed Potato and then I’ll take over.”

“Say hi to the kitty for me.” She’s nibbling on a cookie. “Tell him I’m dying to meet him.”

“Will do! Love you.”

“Right back atcha.” She winks at me, and it makes me smile, because she’s my friend, and yeah, I love her.

But it’s not that heart-pounding, body-clenching, mind-crushing feeling I get around Brinlee. Or the guys. This is affection, that is… I dunno. Infatuation. Lust. Passion? Probably.

What I’m trying to say here is that I’m one hundred percent fucked.

Potato comes mewing at me, complaining loudly and bitterly about my mistreatment and lack of consideration for his hunger pangs. This kitten eats his weight in food every few hours, I swear. When I kneel on the carpet, he climbs all over me, headbutting me and biting my fingers when I stroke him, as if to say, What are you doing on the floor? Go serve me some food, hooman! Stop procrastinating!

So I put my need to cuddle my furball aside in favor of saving him from starvation.

He’s actually gained quite a bit of weight since I got him. He looks good, his body strong, his fur glossy. He jumps around me as I open the can and scoop out some cat food, then when I apparently take too long, he starts climbing my right leg. Those claws are small but wicked.

“Ow, dammit, Taters. It’s coming right up, okay? You’re my most demanding customer, I swear. Ow, spicy kitten. Get down!”

Potato doesn’t care about anything but the food, though, and only jumps off me when I put his bowl back down on the floor. Then he fucking dives into it, face and paws and all.

“Fuck.” I sigh, then laugh. “You’ll need a bath after that, and Bee is waiting downstairs. What am I going to do with you?”

He makes little cute growly noises as he inhales his food.

Being so cute should be illegal.

Does liking kittens mean I like babies? Does that mean I want children? Is it a sign that I should find a pack and be part of a family—a family unlike mine, unlike my parents who are so pushy and oppressive—and discover the joys of being a father?

Would Brinlee like babies?

Fucking hell, Sawyer. I hit my forehead with my fist, one, two, three times. Gently, so as not to rock my already rocky brain. Stop it. You, with babies? You can barely hold your business together, don’t know how to flirt, your OCD is all over the place, and the people you’ve fallen for are either spoken for or don’t seem interested in you that way.

Grow up.

Eric was right. I need to get my shit together, find a good pack, pay off my loan, and focus on my business.

And family.

But the thought of having children with a pack like the Ulfrig Pack doesn’t appeal. I can’t imagine it. I can’t desire it. What the hell am I doing?

It seems to be the question of the year. Hell, the question of my life.

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