“The noise you just made.”
“What? The pstpstpst?”
“Yeah.” He laughs again.
Rolling my eyes playfully, I tell him, “The universal cat call. You’ve never heard it?”
“Nope. The only cat calls I know are the sleazy ones.”
“Not a cat person?”
This is a pivotal moment. If he’s not a cat person, it’ll tell me everything I need to know about him.
Please be a cat person. Please be a cat person.
“I’m notnota cat person, I’ve just only ever had dogs. My parents aren’t cat people, though. They’re not a fan of the litter boxes.”
“That's what self-cleaning ones are for,” I scoff, mildly offended that people—not just Miller’s parents, but all people who do—let something as trivial as where a cat does their business prevent them from getting a cat. “You haven’t had pets of your own?”
“Just the ones on the farm.”
“Would you like something to drink?” Preemptively, I go into the kitchen and pull out two mugs.
“What are my choices?”
“Well, it’s Christmas. So eggnog, cider, hot cocoa, coffee, or the regular beverage options like water, milk, etcetera.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Coffee it is.” Firing up my coffee maker, it gurgles to life with the click of a button, then I busy myself, gathering the other ingredients in order to make a latte at home. Sneaking glances at Miller, I observe as he takes in my apartment, giving everything his full attention before he looks at something else. It’s like he’s getting to know me by examining the items around him. It makes me feel a little anxious. “So tell me about these animals.”
“Well, I do actually have a cat, but he’s a barn cat, so not much of a pet.”
Hedoeshave a cat!
“What’s his name?”
“Er—” He purses his lips. “Barn Cat?”
“Seriously, Miller!” I scold. “Your cat needs a proper name!”
“Well, maybe when you meet him, you can name him for me.”
Heat rises up my cheeks, and I bite my lip. “You want me to meet your cat?”
He shrugs, but a dimple forms when he tries to suppress his smile. “I think you two would get along.”
“What other animals do you have?”
“Penny, my border collie. Plus a horse, two cows, four goats, and a hoard of chickens.”
“Do they have names?”
“Must everything have a name?”
Looking at him with a wide-eyed sarcastic expression, I nod.
Dramatically, Miller sighs, then relents. “The horse is Palmer, and the cows are Chocolate, and Strawberry. The goats and chickens don’t have names, except pain in my ass one, pain in my ass two, you get the picture.”
