Page 246 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions
“I’m stealing that.” I grinned unrepentantly, and Missy smiled beatifically back.
“No, you’re not,” George grunted, standing to the side to gesture between us. “Alex—the pain in the ass I told you about?—”
“The tall drink of water you’re head over heels for,” Missy corrected.
“Missy, my gremlin-asshole-roommate.” Then, now that introductions were over, he stalked off into his apartment to go find his cat.
“He’s so fucking cute,” I murmured without meaning to, to which Missy just nodded, her long gray hair swaying.
“Like a cat,” she agreed. “A big, grouchy, snarky cat.”
“You and I are going to get along swimmingly.” I offered Missy my arm, and she took it with grace, her yarn-covered mittens tucked inside my elbow.
“I already like you better than the other one,” she cooed, leading me into the apartment and shutting the door behind me.
“I should hope so,” I said. “I’m not an ass-face.”
“Depends on who you talk to,” George quipped from the kitchen.
The apartment was smaller than I’d expected but I kept my opinions to myself, absorbing the energy of the room—the plants dangling from the ceiling, the exposed brick wall, and the framed pictures of George’s family that hung perfectly spaced upon it.
George re-entered the room, his eyes bright, a giant grin on his face. Not because of me. No. Because of the cat he was currently wearing like a scarf. A huge, fluffy white monstrosity with bug eyes. The creature was purring, his paws covered in yarn mittens I assumed were handmade by Missy herself.
“You look so handsome,” George cooed at his hairy baby. “Look at you, you precious, perfect, beautiful thing. Daddy missed you. Yes he did. He missed you so, so much.” He kissed the cat’s head, continuing to shower it in praise as he made his way across the living room, dodged around the leather sofa, and stood in front of me.
I was suddenly jealous of Mr. Pickles.
As ridiculous as that was.
“Do you like the mittens?” Missy asked, her grip on my elbow light.
“Do I like the—” George pulled his face out of Mr. Pickles fur. “Of course I like the mittens. They’re brilliant.” He picked up one of the cat’s paws and gave it a wave. “So itty bitty, tiny?—”
“So this is Mr. Pickles,” I cocked my head, staring into the creature’s eyes curiously. I liked cats. I liked all animals. But that didn’t mean I’d really…interacted with them. Mom had one—but I hadn’t been to her villa in Italy in probably a decade? And I genuinely couldn’t recall if she’d had a cat the last time I was there, or if that was a more recent development.
“It sure is,” George’s smile was blinding. He wiggled his grip around, fingers sinking beneath the armpits of the beast as he held him up to me—our faces inches apart.
He smelled like…fur.
And his eyes…
His eyes, I swear to god, could see inside my soul.
“Mr. Pickles, meet your new dad,” George said.
And suddenly—I was no longer jealous of the cat.
Happiness flooded my chest, bubbly and effervescent.
“He’s annoying sometimes but he means well,” George said, his dark blue eyes blinking at me from behind the plume of fluff. “You better be nice to him?—”
I wasn’t sure if the threat was aimed at me or Mr. Pickles, but either way, I figured it was fair.
“Here.” George blinked, waiting.
What was he?—
Oh.
