Page 38 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
The instant Frankie’s eyes land on Thelma, a laugh bursts from her. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut and slams a hand over her mouth, curving in on herself as if trying to hold in hysterics.
“Seriously?” she says when she’s got a grip. “Tractors?”
She points at the boxers, which are indeed black with little orange and green tractors all over them.
“There wasn’t a whole lot of choice.” I reach up and attempt to tug the garment out of Thelma’s mouth. “It was tractors, roosters, chain saws or pitchforks.”
“So you went for tractors?” she says with a sigh-laugh.
“Actually, I got all four.” Thelma might be old but her jaws have the locking power of an industrial vise. “Because, you know, man cannot live by one pair of underwear alone.”
Since the cat’s refusing to let go, I try to get my hand under her to pull her down. But she just creeps farther back to where I can’t reach her without finding something to stand on.
“I had no idea she still had it in her to get up there,” Frankie says through yet more giggles.
“What’s her favorite treat?”
“Tractor underwear, apparently.” She’s thoroughly amused by her own joke.
“Hilarious. Seriously, what might tempt her to drop them?”
“Salmon,” Frankie says. “There’s some in the fridge, but you’ll have to give it to her. If shetook it from me she’d only immediately punish me by clawing the hand that fed her.”
“Great.” I pull the fridge door open and the handle almost comes off in my grip. When was the last time anyone fixed anything around here?
The cooked salmon sits on a plate covered in plastic wrap on the top shelf of the fridge. The rest of the contents have a clear clue as to who owns them. I imagine the sticky-looking jar of pickles and two cans of stout are Sam’s, and that the veggies, fruit, yogurts, and two bottles of sauvignon blanc—one half empty—are Frankie’s.
“All right.” I peel back the plastic wrap, rip a chunk off the salmon, reseal the plate and turn back to face my tormentor. “Give me back my underwear, you little madam.”
“Is that a sentence you use often?” Frankie asks, a devilish glint in her eye.
“Your cat is literally the first living creature, human or animal, to ever steal my boxers.” I wave the salmon under Thelma’s nose.
“I find that hard to believe.”
A quick glance out of the corner of my eye determines Frankie’s focused entirely on the pot now.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
The cat’s gaze follows the tasty treat back and forth, but she shows no sign of releasing my skivvies.
“You look like someone who has a woman in every port.” Frankie concentrates on stirring. “Or every small town that you digital-nomad in.”
My chest tightens at the reminder of my lie. And the fact that she believes me.
“No women anywhere.” That’s one hundred percent honesty, but there’s no point talking about that.
“Okay, Miss Kitty, you don’t even get to sniff this salmon if you’re not going to let go.” I withdraw the treat and she immediately jumps down, on the way releasing my underwear, which lands unceremoniously on the side of the pot that I can now see contains soup—one corner dangling in the contents, another catching light in the flame underneath.
“Ah!” Frankie grabs the flaming, partially soup-soaked boxers and tosses them in the sink where they continue to burn.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, diving for the faucet and turning it on to extinguish the flame.
“A whole new meaning to fire in your pants,” she says with a wiggle of her eyebrows.
Even the cat looks like she’s laughing at me as she munches on the salmon that I dropped onto the counter.
“Yeah, thanks.” I rinse out the soupy corner of the fabric and examine the rest of the damage. “I think they’ll make it. It’s just the hem that’s burned on one side.”
