Page 62 of The Last Kind of Kiss
Kitty’s Catwalk saves the day with their last over-the-top event that turns regular people’s lives into fanfare for the rich and hungry. Lila and I are scheduled to make an appearance at an animal rescue to drive adoptions—you know, because there’s nothing people love more than cute animals. A few pictures of us outside, some adorable portraits of the furry adoptees, and there’ll be a huge buzz on social media. The kicker to all of this? Lila’s mother just so happens to be one of the employees who works there.
I’m nervous to meet her mom.
After Lila spilled all her secret beans during her post-orgasm clarity, I’ve been working extra hard to make sure she feels wanted, even though we haven’t agreed to make anything real yet. We haven’t talked about what she said—she didn’t want to have that discussion. Luckily for me, it’s pretty obvious where her doubts lie, so although a conversation would be appreciated, it’s not needed. I still have time to ensure there’s a relationship between us after this campaign. I still have time to prove to her how serious I am about her.
And I think that the only way I’ll truly understand where herfear stems from is if I ask the person who helped her grow into the wonderful woman she is today. So, yes, I’m a little scummy because I have an ulterior motive for this event, but it’s in the name of good, so that has to count for something, right?
I’ve thought about bringing up the ring soon, but she’s just…happy…right now.I’mhappy right now. I don’t want to lose this feeling. It’s the first time, fuck—it’s the first time I haven’t been burdened by Summit’s absence inyears.
When we pull up to the little animal rescue off the edge of the main road, there’s this pink building that sits in a glade of overgrown foliage, beckoning road-weary families with a white, scalloped awning and a giant hanging sign that advertises in cursive letters: COME MEET YOUR NEW PAL AT THE FUR-EVER FRIEND RESCUE!
A gravel pathway snakes up to the arched, window-paneled door, and it extends out to the lip of the asphalt that wraps around the tree-dotted mountainside. While there are a few buildings scattered like pit stops within these winding hills, this one looks drastically different from the rest—like a 1940s, pastel, vintage French shop plopped into the modern day.
I’ve never seen anything quite as colorful in Riverside, which makes sense as to why it’s hidden beyond the main city. It’s like a little-known secret, a getaway from the nondescript jungle of starving artists and well-off families with roomy wallets. The press has already begun swarming the entrance, causing a ruckus with their eager shouts and camera flashes—an unwelcome catalyst that nearly makes me sweat through the sophisticated button-up I’m wearing. I’m less worried about a public appearance than I am meeting Lila’s mother. Even though we’re notreallytogether, Lila and I have been “dating” ever since this campaign launched. Her mother will probably have a ton of questions for me, assuming Lila hasn’t told her the truth.
I grab the bouquet of peonies I bought for Lila’s mom fromthe back seat of the car, and I open the passenger door for Lila. The sky’s a backdrop of grey since we’ve sped into the first week of December, and it’s cold enough to herald a faint drizzle of rain. Fat droplets pelt the disintegrated gravel, thin rivulets merging into a confluence where numerous shoe soles have carved out potholes in the soft, upturned earth. They shimmer like crystals atop Lila’s blown-out hair and dangle from the tips of flaxen leaves. The air up here is crisp, mind-clearing, like the first breath you take on a frosted morning right before school. It slips through my hair in light gales of wind, biting at the warmth that temporarily commandeers the color of my cheeks.
Lila’s a showstopper. I’m surprised she didn’t cause a crash on the road with how beautiful she looks right now. She’s wearing the prettiest coffee-colored, knee-length sweater dress I’ve ever seen. Her calf-high boots are suede and a rich shade of caramel, which complements the tightly curled ringlets of her hair. She’s traded high society fashion for cozy country chic, and she’s the only person I know stunning enough to pull off both. So, in short, she’s the epitome of perfection with an agenda to ruin me.
“Bristol! Lila! How have you two love birds been doing? Any trouble in paradise?”
“Lila, how proud are you of your boyfriend? Five goals last night!”
“Bristol, do you think the Reapers can win it all this year? Bring home a second Stanley Cup?”
“Lila, what other projects are you working on at the moment? Fans are dying to know!”
Even though these questions are on the tamer side, I’ll never bury my hatred for the press. I just give them a nod and a smile while I usher Lila through the door, and once we escape the tabloid tornado, aftershocks of relief catapult through my body. A cameraman from Kitty’s personnel and Ester herself joins uson the inside. When that little bell above our heads announces our arrival, I’m shock-stricken at how bright, warm, and inviting everything is.
Tons of cushy pens line the inside of the rescue, home to a myriad of dogs that all start to bark and yap, whacking the confines of their pens with their tails in frenzied excitement. Every temporary enclosure is spacious and decorated with colorful, soft bedding, a plethora of chew toys, and even a personalized food and water dish. I’ve never seen an animal shelter that looks this manicured, well-loved,humane. There’s even a main play area in the center that’s large enough for a few of them to roam around in.
Lila must’ve noticed the conflict on my face—conflict so innate that the pinch of my features is practically muscle memory.
“Are you a big animal lover?” she asks.
I crack a small smile. “I’ve been an animal lover ever since I was a kid. My family and I had this golden retriever named Rocky, and she was one of the best dogs I could’ve ever asked for. She was huge—a whopping sixty-five pounds with a fur coat like a miniature grizzly bear—and she’d always bulldoze me with kisses and headbutts whenever I’d get home from school. We did everything together; we ate, slept, played in the yard, watched television. She was my best friend.
“And she was emotionally attuned to everything I felt, you know? She was there for me more times than my friends or hockey teammates. Whenever I was sad, she’d bring me her favorite tennis ball to cheer me up, and she’d flop all over me until she made me laugh. It was impossible to be upset around her. She was my security blanket. A big, fuzzy, sometimes questionable-smelling security blanket.”
Lila’s electric-blue eyes regard me intently, and she hangs on to every word.
“She passed of old age, in my childhood home, where I got to hold her for the last time. I, uh, haven’t had a pet since her. I don’t think I could go through that grief again,” I admit.
Grief and I don’t mix well. Exhibit A: Summit. Exhibit B: the two fuckups that nearly cost me Lila.
She nods. “I understand. And I bet she’s watching over you every second of every day. I never had a pet growing up because my childhood home didn’t allow it, but I’ve always wanted one.”
“You’re willing to deal with the bad breath and the untrainable house etiquette?”
“I deal with you, don’t I?” she quips.
I’m pretty sure I’m a masochist because I can’t help but laugh. “Fair enough.”
Lila walks over to the first pen, squatting down so she can stick her hand by the front of the cage. A tiny Maltipoo comes loping out from the shadows, little tail wagging like a propeller, and equally little feet scrambling all over the place in short energy bursts. The grey fluff ball yaps, sniffing Lila’s hand and turning in circles.
I feel you, little dude. I’d react the same way if I was meeting Lila for the first time too.
“Oh, Bristol. This one’s so cute!” Lila says, eyes larger than hockey pucks while they twinkle with unconditional love.
