Page 4 of Claiming Her Cougar
The outer door to the restroom bangs open, and a masculine voice calls out.“Miss?Are you okay?”
Just my luck.The one time someone’s here, I’m having a close encounter of the rodent kind.“No, I’m not okay!There’s a mouse!”I’m still peeing.How big is the human bladder?Whatever the size, I think I have an extra-large one.
“Okay, I’ll take care of it.Where is it?”The man’s calm voice comes from outside the stall door.
“In my pant leg.”I close my eyes, partly to avoid looking down at the vermin doing a barnacle impression on my calf and partly to pretend I’m home in my cozy bed and this is all a jacked-up, Dorito-induced dream.
“In your… The pants you’re wearing?”
“Yep,” I answer, popping the “p” whilestillpeeing.
“Did you try shaking it out?”I know he’s trying to be helpful, but I don’t feel like playing twenty questions right now.
“Well, I’m a bit busy right now,” I say drily.“It’s clinging to my trouser sock.”
“Shake your leg, maybe it will come loose.”
My flow has decreased to a trickle.Screw hydration.I’m drinking one glass of water a day from now on.I shake my leg as much as this small stall will allow without ramming my shin into the door and smushing the little critter.The mouse holds on like it’s going for eight seconds on the mechanical bull at the Mountain Bar.I swear I heard it go “Wheeeee!”
“It’s still there!”A slight edge of hysteria tinges my voice.What if it scampers up the rest of my leg and bites me on the hoo-ha?How would I explain that at the ER?Oh no.Do mice carry rabies?Is this a rabid mouse?
“I’m sure it’s not rabid.It’s just scared.”His voice holds the calm, measured tone of someone trying to talk someone off the ledge or convince them not to cut their bangs.
Oh crap, did I say that out loud?
“Yeah, you did.”
“What do I do now?”I ask in the echoing room.My bladder’s come to the end of its six-year odyssey to empty itself.
“I’m assuming you don’t want to touch it, otherwise you would have already plucked it off?”That’s a reasonable assumption on his part.
“No, I don’t want to touch it!And I’m sitting here on the toilet with my pants down.What the heck would I do with it once I got it?”I’m not in the mood for reason.I want action.
“If I promise not to look above your knees, can you open the door so I can get it off your leg?”He really has a nice voice.It’s deep and soothing.And familiar.I’m assuming it’s one of my coworkers, but no one else is usually down here.Oh no.Please don’t let this be my boss, Mr.Morgan.I would have to quit and move out of New Jersey.I wonder if they need real estate paralegals in Florida.
“It’s not like I have a choice.”I know, I’m so gracious.
I unlock the stall door and ease it open so that my left leg is visible.My little gray hitchhiker is still there, clinging to my sock, trembling.If it wasn’t attached to me, maybe I’d think it was cute.Speaking of cute, my rescuer is a big hunk of a man.I can’t see his face clearly, but I’m assuming he’s in his late twenties, like I am.The fluorescent lights pick up some dark copper tones in his rich brown hair.His eyelashes are so long, they look like they brush his cheeks as he keeps his gaze downcast, reaching out a large hand toward my leg.
“Oh, it’s just a baby,” he croons, plucking the little critter from my sock.Cradling it gently in his palms, he turns away from the open door of the stall and walks to the main door of the bathroom.
I quickly put myself back to rights and call out over the sound of flushing, “What are you going to do with it?”
“Feed it to the snake in the file room,” he replies.
“What?” I shriek, wrenching the stall door open all the way.
Chuckling, he opens the main door to the restroom and says, “I’m taking Mickey outside and letting him loose in the tree line.”
My rescuer’s gone before I have the chance to thank him.After washing my hands, I look for him in the lobby, but don’t see him.Maybe he left for the day?He seems familiar.I assume he works for the company that services the building and not Morgan Development directly.I think we have a service company…or do we handle cleaning in-house after-hours?Normally, when there’s an issue, my co-worker and friend, Daphne, tells Betty, the sixty-something receptionist upstairs, and it gets handled.I’ve never had to do anything in the almost- year I’ve worked here.
I resolve to ask Daphne about it when she’s back in the office on Monday.She took off this holiday week to surprise her boyfriend in France.Logan’s a travel photographer, and he’s visiting a bunch of Christmas markets throughout Europe.I hope she’s having a wonderful time—she deserves it.
After my ordeal, I’m embarrassed and want to keep it to myself.However, I need to let the powers that be know we have mice so they can be dealt with before they overrun the office.When I get back to my desk, I call Betty.It doesn’t matter who the CEO is, everyone who’s ever worked in an office knows that it’s usually the receptionist that runs the show.
“Hi, Betty.It’s Mallory.We have a little problem downstairs.”
I tell Betty about the mouse, then lean back in my chair.Where do I know that guy from?Big guy, good-looking, with pants that fitrealgood.A voice made for whispering in a woman’s ear and hands just right for wrapping around a woman’s… Oh, no.I sit upright with a gasp.No, no, no, no, no.Nothim.
