I’m not sure if she’s speaking to me about the devil or to the devil about me.
“You’re the neediest male known to malekind,” she says.
Yup, she’s still talking to Saul, and I’m not entirely sure I’m needed here. She might very well be a self-sustaining date.
She waggles a finger at the ginger creature. “But I have a date with a vet. And I am going to get answers. Take that, cat,” she says, sassy as a reality TV star.
Or perhaps I am needed.
Just for something other than my company.
For my expertise.
“Would you like to order, Maya?” I suggest, since I’m pretty sure I need a glass or four right now for this unexpected vet therapy session.
And something to soak it up.
Once we order white wine and a plate of cheese and olives for an appetizer, she lets out a long, needy sigh, like a balloon losing all its air. “I can’t mince words anymore,” she says.
“I didn’t think you were.”
“I’ll beg for help if I have to. Dr. Harris, I’m going to level with you.”
“Please do,” I say, patiently waiting.
She flaps her hands at the big orange tabby in her lap. “Why won’t he leave my side?” Her voice threatens to break, and my heart softens more.
Perhaps this is why Maya needed this date. To deal with her feline homunculus. “Tell me more about him.”
She does. She spills all, the whole tale of her cat, finishing with “You’re wonderful. You listened. You listened to every word.” She sounds as if that’s never happened before. “My last vet didn’t listen at all. I was seeing a vet in the city.”
“I have some thoughts on what might be going on with Saul,” I say.
We chat about options for clingy cats with possessive behavior, until she slumps happily in her chair, a smile spreading across her face, bliss in her features as she announces, “This is the best date I have ever been on in my life because you’re smart, kind, and patient, and I just got an hour of free veterinary care and cat therapy.”
Her hand flies to her mouth, then she removes it. “Shoot. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think I was using you. I really like you, Dr. Harris. A lot. I like you a lot, and you’re handsome and smart and English, and I wouldn’t mind seeing you again and hearing you again and listening to your charming voice talk about cats. Do you want to go out again? We could go for a walk—the three of us maybe. I could put him in his harness. He’s great on a leash.”
I shake my head, giving her a soft smile. “If you need any more help with Saul, why don’t you set up a time and come see me at the office, and we can sort through some of these issues? I had a lovely time tonight, but I think perhaps we’re better off as vet and client.”
I pay the bill, walk her out, and wish her well, feeling oddly glad it didn’t work out.
“On a scale of one to ten, was it the weirdest date ever?”
The question comes from Oliver on the other end of the phone as I walk through the town square, post cat-date.
I laugh, shaking my head. “No. God, no. The weirdest one I’ve ever been on was the ad exec who couldn’t stop picking her teeth with her fork to get the barbecue out of them, and she covered her mouth with her hand as if I couldn’t see her. She did it all throughout the meal.”
“Why did you just remind me? I tried to block that from my mind.”
“You literally just asked, wanker.”
“Yes, but you should protect me from horror stories. You know I don’t like them.”
“Because you have your own horror stories.”
“Indeed. Like Hazel, who stalked my apartment six days in a row after we broke up. Just . . . lying in ambush. I had to call Summer to help me escape from her, to pretend to be my girlfriend.”
I laugh. “And I’m sure that pained you, to have to play make-believe with Summer. How devastating to spend extra time with a woman who you’re secretly wildly attracted to.”
“Whoever said I’m secretly wildly attracted to her?”
“I actually just did.” I wander past the ice cream shop, the sweet scent of waffle cones drifting out the doorway and giving me an idea. “I need to nip off. I’ll text you in a minute. I’m popping into the ice cream shop.”
I say goodbye, head inside, survey the menu, then order a pint of Chocolate Peanut Butter Dream, which sounds like the perfect end to an imperfect first date in Duck Falls.
When the hazel-eyed woman with the toned arms who runs the shop hands me the pint, she slides me a business card along with it. “I’m Valeria Rodriquez. I’ve heard about you. Give me a call sometime. I’ll make you your own flavor.” She adds a wink, even though I heard the wink in her words loud and clear.
