Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 49416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
I want to ask him about the texts, about that night, but I keep my lips sealed. He'd asked me on day one if I could handle this, and bringing up curiosities from that night would definitely show I'm not handling it.
“I'll let you get back to work,” he says, slowly rising from the chair. “I'll see you at closing time.”
I nod at him, hoping he can't see the flush rushing over my cheeks, unable to deny the excitement at the thought of him being there to walk me out and follow me home.
I focus extremely hard on my computer, despite no real work being there for me at the moment.
A few hours later, I log off for the night and leave my office, finding Owen waiting at the front door for me like he has been every night.
And just like every night prior, the minute he sees me walking toward him he smiles in a way that is completely and totally unfair.
I haven't seen him smile like that at anyone else, despite him being kind to the rare patients he’s run into. No, something about this look seems significant and tailored just for me. I can't decide if I'm imagining it and seeing what my heart so desperately wants to see or if it’s genuine.
“I have to feed Gregory,” I say, just like a do every night. I fill his food and water dishes in the break room before heading toward the back door.
Owen holds the door open for me, and I set down the small silver dishes I purchased just for Gregory after he’d shown up a few nights in a row at my back door. He never has a collar on, so I’m certain he’s a stray, but he’s never let me pick him up either.
“I still can’t believe he won’t let me pet him,” Owen grumbles, his blue eyes on the cat that comes like clockwork toward us from the copse of trees lining the parking lot.
“He’s barely let me touch him,” I say. “And he knows me. You’re still a stranger.”
“I guess,” Owen says, nodding down at Gregory who immediately digs into his food. “But I’ve known him longer than he’s known me.”
My heart does a little flip in my chest at his meaning. I sent Silver plenty of pictures of Gregory.
“Here,” I say, handing him the few treats I’d snagged from the cabinet in my break room. “Give him these. He’ll warm up to you eventually.”
Owen crouches down, and the sight is enough to make my knees weak. The strong, tatted man reaches out, gently offering the stray the treats from his palm, looking completely opposite from his intimidating exterior.
Gregory studies Owen for a few heartbeats before he turns his nose up at the offering as if Owen has no right to do such a thing.
I laugh, kneeling beside Owen, taking his hand in mine, plucking one of the treats and offering it to the cat.
He takes it from my fingers, his sandpaper-like tongue scraping against my skin for a second before he eyes the remaining two treats in Owen’s hand.
“Nope,” I say. “If you want them, you need to take them from him.” I gently grip Owen’s outstretched arm. “You can trust him. He’s my…friend.” I nearly stumble over the title, my heart wanting to add labels to this man that I have absolutely no business doing.
Gregory narrows his gaze at me as if to call me a traitor, but eventually relents, slowly, timidly stalking closer to Owen and snagging the treats from his hand before racing off into the trees.
Owen smiles, standing back up and pulling me along with him, before he scoops me into his arms. “Thanks for vouching for me,” he says before releasing me, clearing his throat and taking a giant step back as if he didn’t mean to do that. “I want that cat to like me.”
I laugh, eyebrows raised. “You that much of a cat person?”
“Not really,” he says, following me back into the building and toward the front exit.
“Then why do you care if he likes you?”
“Because he’s important to you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
The sincerity in that statement makes me pause near the front entrance, eyes trained up and locking with his, tension stretching between us.
“Did you get all your work done?” he asks, holding the door open for me and following me outside as I lock up.
“I think so,” I say, grateful for the change in subject. “Though, somehow, I feel like every day there are new tasks added to the never-ending to-do list.”
“You do schedule out your days to the minute,” he says, walking with me toward my car.
“Well, that's just the way my brain operates,” I explain. “If I don't schedule everything down to the minute, it doesn't get do—”