Page 20 of Middle Ground

“Fish. Not the clean laundry!”

The fat orange tabby cat peers up at me with an unbothered expression from his spot inside my basket of laundry. Granted, it has been sitting on my bedroom floor for two weeks, so it’s understandable why Fish would thinkit now belongs to him. But I wasn’t really counting on cat hair being an accessory to my outfit today.

I found Fish in one of the inn’s dumpsters a couple years ago. He was hungry and in need of a good bath, so I brought him home and nursed him back to health. As a thanks, he eats me out of house and home, and he steals my underwear.

If I’m ever running low on clean panties, I just have to look under the couch. He usually has a decent stash under there.

I nudge Fish out of the basket. He lets out a meow of discontent as he disembarks, and I can feel his glare. “Don’t look at me like that,” I say. “I need to find a shirt to wear to work.”

Then my phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans, distracting me.

Trystan

Jeanine called in. No one available. Can you cover?

I sigh. Of all the jobs to be done at the inn and restaurant, I don’t mind most of them. Housekeeping, on the other hand, is a different story. I can barely stand doing my own laundry, let alone someone else’s.

Not a problem! See you soon!

Trystan

The exclamation points aren’t fooling anyone, Meyer.

Fine. Housekeeping sucks!!! But I’ll do it anyway.

Trystan

I know you will and that's why you're the best. See you soon, boss!!!

With a grin, I tuck my phone back in my pocket and rifle through the stack of folded t-shirts. I toss the one from the top of the pile onto the floor—it’s predictably covered in a million orange hairs. I find one that’s acceptable and begin to tug it over my head.

My arms are just about through the holes when a knock at my front door startles me. I bump into my nightstand, my knee smashing against the side.

“Son of a bitch.”

Fish lets out a meow that sounds strangely like a laugh. Once I have the shirt over my head, I throw a glare in his direction where he sits across the room, cleaning his paws.

“I’m beginning to regret saving your ass,” I mutter. Fish only flicks his tail and saunters out of my bedroom.

Another knock sounds, so with a sigh, I follow the cat’s lead. A quick glance in the bathroom mirror on my way by reveals my hair is a dishevelled mess, which adds another few seconds to the delay while I tame the strands.

In the living room, I peel back the curtain on the front window to see who is out there.

A scowl paints my lips as I throw the door open, rubbing my smarting knee in the process. “What?” I snap.

Fish takes the opportunity to dart out between my legs, bright pink panties flapping in the wind as they hangfrom his mouth.

Jackson watches the cat go. “I take it those are yours?” he asks.

I abandon my knee and stand up straight, crossing my arms. “No,” I reply, tone sarcastic. “Fish likes to accessorize.”

He gaze swings back to me. “You named your catFish?”

“Yes. It’sironic.”

I take this moment to assess him. The last time he stood outside my front door, he was dressed in sweatpants, and I was very drunk. Today, he is wearing a navy suit, and I am, unfortunately, very sober.

Though I suppose drinking was part of my problem the other night.