Page 154 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“Of course I want you to come,” I say. “Everything’s better when you’re there. But you don’t have to.”

Kat shrugs, looks thoughtful.

“I get better with practice,” she says. “And now I sort of know Linda, and some of your other coworkers, and I know what to expect. And you’ll be there to tell me who’s who, so long as you don’t leave me to the wolves.”

I put one hand over my heart, as if wounded.

“I would never,” I say.

“It’ll be like The Devil Wears Prada,” she says, and I laugh. “There’s a scene where—”

“Anne Hathaway has to whisper names to Meryl Streep,” I say.

“You’ve seen it?”

“I heard it was good. Don’t be sexist.”

That gets another laugh out of her: here, in her office, glowing like sunlight.

“You’re right,” she says. “Sorry.”

Then she glances at the door again and stands, walking over until she’s right in front of me.

“Hey,” she says, suddenly serious.

“What?”

“This was a weird month but I’m glad it happened,” she says, and there’s that glow again, the way my heart feels like it sparkles or something.

“It’s not over yet,” I tell her, and Kat rolls her eyes, trying not to smile.

I try not to wonder too much at this: that after everything she’s here, laughing, telling me she’s glad it happened. That I was set for a life alone and then she crashed in. I know better than to question gifts, but it can be hard not to think they weren’t really meant for me.

“I’m still glad it happened,” she says, and kisses me. It’s chaste and sweet and quick but yes: she tastes like sunshine.

“Get to work,” I tell her when she pulls back. “I hear you almost lost your job.”

“You’re such a dick,” she says, laughing.

“You wouldn’t give me the time of day if I were too nice to you.”

“Get out,” she laughs, and I do, blowing her a kiss. I feel a million pounds lighter.

* * *

“Come on,”I say. “Those are important.”

Beast stares at me, unrepentant, two paws on the keyboard of my work laptop.

“I’m not petting you while you’re on my computer,” I tell her. “Ear scritches are for well-behaved cats.”

“MRROWP,” she responds. She does not move, so I sigh, then lift my enormous twenty-pound cat off my lap and onto the couch cushion next to me.

Instantly, there’s a paw on the computer again.

“For fuck’s sake,” I tell her, and shove it off. She frowns, but I scratch that spot behind her ears and her eyes slowly close. It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m watching college football while answering emails, since Kat’s at some board game thing with Anna Grace and I may as well catch up on work.

I’ve just hit send on another one when my phone buzzes and Beast mrrrps, because she’s half lying on top of it.