Page 74 of The Best Wrong Move

I glance up from my screen to watch Rex and Juju on the deck with coffee mugs in hand. Pru purrs gently at my elbow on the couch, then buries her face into a cushion.

“I still can’t believe your Auntie Juju is sleeping with that idiot.”

Pru replies by rubbing her chin against my elbow, her special way of asking for belly rubs. I oblige and she flips onto her back, humoring me with her best dead possum impression.

“What am I going to do with you when it’s time to go back home?”

Rex and Juju lean into each other at the rail outside. I haven’t talked to Rex since that day he heard Dom and I against the wall. He’s sent two more texts about missing me, which I haven’t had the patience to reply to with anything resembling kindness. I’ve sent a few that make it clear I’m not interested in being a side piece to him while he’s in a relationship with another woman, especially one as wonderful as Juju. And, besides, I’m in a relationship with Dom now. We shouldn’t be texting each other at all.

Pru flops across my laptop and starts purring loudly, pushing the screen back with all four feet.

“I’m sorry, Pru, but I’m going to need this laptop today. Ihaveto do some research on bagels. I’ve lived off Dom’s cooking skills long enough. Bringing a breakfast that someone else made is the least I can do, at this point.”

I plead, but she doesn’t budge. Even when I slide her onto the table instead of my keyboard, she stays in the same position.

I give up and grab my phone to research, just as a text comes in.

Would you mind if I bring over a new curtain rod for the shower?

I reply right away.

Dying for a distraction

He responds.

See you in 5

* * *

Dom has billions in the bank and could hire anyone else in the world to do it, but here he is with his craggy old toolbox again. I have a hunch he does it as an excuse to hang out with me, which I’m totally here for. Watching him handle those tools reminds me of the second time we met, the day he installed the window blinds. He says he likes working with his hands, that it reminds him of all his days working backstage with the set builders he idolized as a kid.

He probably doesn’t need an audience while he works, but he’s telling me something about growing up in California, which means I can get away with standing here watching him even longer before I return to writing. There’s something about a man with tree trunks for forearms wielding a big ol’ drill that really gets my heart pumping. Writing may have to wait.

“. . . so that’s when Quinton got into the studio as a director’s assistant. Our mom always figured he’d be the one to do something out of the ordinary with his life. Follow in our dad’s footsteps.”

I sigh dreamily. “I can’t even imagine what Thanksgiving is like at your house.”

“Yeah, he brought Katarina Lowen one year, before he and Selma got married. Katarina asked my mom if she could bring her own vegan turkey. My mom couldn’t wait to see what Katarina Lowen’s vegan turkey tasted like.” He laughs, pausing the drill overhead.

“Katarina Lowen was at your family’s Thanksgiving dinner, eating tofurkey?”

“All six feet of her. Super models are like an entirely different species of human. You don’t know it until you see them in real life.”

I imagine Dom casually eating tofurkey next to one of the most well-known models in the industry. These little details are so commonplace to him, but absolutely fascinating to me.

Pru chooses this exact moment to start meowing behind the bedroom door. Dom still has no idea that Pru’s taken up residency in his rental, since I’m still waiting for the perfect moment to tell him, and I’m not about to let him find out like this. She’s been so good at just taking a nap in the closet when he’s here, at least until this visit.

“Oh! Hey, I forgot something in the bedroom!” I’m talking louder than normal, trying to mask the meowing behind the door, but her little paws start scratching at the wood. “Be right back!”

Dom starts the drill, buying me some more time to figure this out. I run into the kitchen, grab a can of cat food from the pantry, throw it into a shallow bowl, and run back to the bedroom. After a failed attempt to gently shove her back when I open the door a crack, she pushes out past me and into the hallway. I lunge after her, falling to my stomach, just narrowly missing her slim body before she saunters toward the bathroom where Dom’s drill is still whirring loudly. She pauses outside the door and stares at me, challenging me with her eyes.

The angry twitch of her tail says, “Come any closer, and I’ll jump on his back.”

I sigh into the carpet.

So much for keeping Pru a secret any longer.

The drill stops.

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