Page 1111 of One More Kiss

“Exactly. I’m not getting any younger, and I’m not going to waste the rest of my life on an asshole who only sleeps with younger women to hide the fact that he has absolutely no idea what to do with his penis. Good-bye, Mom.”

I hit the “END CALL” button, and for the second time in a day, I wished for the ability to slam a receiver down. I was shoving my phone in my back pocket when the doorbell rang its discordant tune.

One more thing to add to the to-do list.

I had a feeling I knew who was on the other side of that door, and I was not looking forward to answering it. Alas, just like my mother, Beatrice Kemp would annoy me until I answered.

Fueled by righteous indignation, I marched over to the carefully polished solid wood door and whipped it open. Sure enough, Aunt Mercy’s neighbor from Hell was on the other side, her cold blue eyes affixed to my paint-spattered jeans with disdain.

In contrast, Beatrice was dressed in a blood-red tailored skirt suit, with a thin belt at the waist and a faint peplum flare. On her feet were black sky-high stilettos that I couldn’t imagine her trudging through the brush in to get to my front door. Her dark-auburn hair was curled in glamourous waves that made me abundantly aware that I probably had paint in mine. She was likely my mother’s age, but she pulled it off with a flair Mom just couldn’t muster.

I couldn’t say why, but I hated her on sight.

“Can I help you, Beatrice?” I asked when she didn’t speak, unable to endure one more second of her disapproval.

She shook herself before meeting my gaze, her severe features screwed up in immediate displeasure. “I was wondering—”

“If I found your book?” I answered, not willing to let her harangue about that damn thing one more time. I got it. She lent Mercy a book and didn’t get it back. I was not listening to that damn story again. “No, I haven’t. That hasn’t changed since you asked this morning at seven a.m.—on a Saturday, I might add. It hasn’t changed since you asked yesterday or since you inquired the day before.”

“Really,” she drawled, her top lip curling just a little as she gave me an up-down assessment which found me seriously lacking. “I can’t see what is taking so long. I lent Mercy that book, and I want it back. Maybe if you let me in to look for it—”

“Absolutely not,” I insisted, cutting her off. There was no way I was letting this woman—who gave me the mother of all heebies—into this house. Who knew if what she was saying was the truth? No one in the history of ever had lost it this much over a damn book, and I was a librarian, for fuck’s sake.

Or at least I used to be before Mitchell got me fired.

That’s when Mercy’s awful cat, Jeff, slipped out of the scant space I left between me and the front door. Yes, his name was actually Jeff, and no, there was no explanation for why anyone on the planet would name a cat that preposterous name, either. His collar even had it emblazoned on the silver tag.

In rhinestones, no less.

Jeff and I did not get along. He meowed at me at all hours of the day and night, begging for food when he had a virtual cornucopia of yummy treats. He barfed in my shoes, shredded my suitcase, and nearly killed me four times on the stairs, three times in the bathroom, and twice in the kitchen. He was a beautiful blue-gray color with striking tawny eyes, and if he wasn’t such a cantankerous dick, we’d likely get along just fine.

Too bad he was likely trying to murder me so he could have Mercy’s house all to himself.

That said, he seemed to hate Beatrice just as much as I did. Back arched, hair standing on end, he hissed a blue streak—well, I didn’t speak cat, but that’s what it sounded like—at Beatrice, swiping at her shapely tan leg as if drawing her blood was at the tippy top of his to-do list.

I nodded. My sentiments exactly.

Jeff’s backup—and leftover fervor from yelling and both my parents—gave me the gall to give the woman a piece of my mind.

“This is straight-up harassment, and if you don’t get your skinny ass off my front porch, I’m calling the cops. And if they won’t help, I’m sure Mercy has a shotgun laying around here somewhere. If I happen to find your book, I’ll put it in the post. Until then, stay the fuck off my property.”

Beatrice looked aghast. “Well, I never.”

I nodded at her. “And that’s exactly why you think it’s perfectly fine to harass someone right after a family member just died. It’s because no one’s punched you in the face for talking shit before. Keep pressing me, and that’ll change right quick. Goodbye, Beatrice.”

Beatrice huffed and spun on her heel, stomping down the porch stairs and down the drive. I knew this wasn’t the last I’d see of her, but damn, did it feel good to tell her off.

I couldn’t remember a time when I’d said exactly what was on my mind or told someone exactly where they could go in the middle of a confrontation. Usually, it took hours or days to think up the perfect retort, but not today.

I cast my gaze down to Jeff. “Thanks for the backup, little dude. How do you feel about tuna fish?”

Jeff meowed at me, his ears perking up in the universal kitty gesture for “I’m listening.”

At least someone liked me today.

Even if it was a damn cat.

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