Page 46 of How To Plot a Payback

Of course it’s her car.

“I’m going to be late,” I retort as I toss the box back in and slam the door. I open the liftgate and usher Miles inside.

She shrugs, elbow dangling out her open window. “You’re being a bit dramatic, aren’t you? But if you’re that worried about it, maybe try parking in your slot next time.”

“I did. You boxed me in.”

“I beg to differ.”

My brows furrow and I look down. Sure enough, in my haste I had somehow missed the fact that the road had been restriped and accidentally parked my car on the faded white parking line instead of the clear dark yellow. So my Subaru Forester is now frustratingly covering half of one spot and half of the other.

Well.

“My mistake,” I say, grabbing the cat carrier off the sidewalk. I clench my jaw, wanting so much to hang on to my dignity and not say the words, particularly to her, that I know I must. “I . . . apologize.”

Silence.

She laughs. At me, with me, it makes no difference. “I won’t lose any sleep over it. Now, what shall we do with our pets?”

She’s using the term “we.” As if this is a collaborative issue to be tackled.

“I don’t know about you,” I say. “I imagine you have a dozen assistants to handle this sort of thing. In fact, I’m not even quite sure why you are personally involved in this scenario at all. As for me, I haven’t got people to whom I can just hand off tasks. I have to get to work on time or I will be fired. And my flat is forty minutes in the wrong direction. My family is overseas. My workplace demands I maintain a workaholic lifestyle, which has led to all my friends currently being either at my place of employment or being my neighbors—all of whom are senior citizens and drive according to the laws of the 1920s—which, for the record, are terrifying.

“Consequently, I will do the opposite of what is a good plan and attempt to sneak the animals into my closet-sized office. Should I actually succeed in squeezing us all in, Miles will be happy to sit quietly at my feet.” I pause and give Bernie a look. “Unlike some dogs I know. And, thanks to my lack of popularity, I do not expect my colleagues to drop in and pepper me with questions such as, ‘Did you know you have a dog in here?’ and ‘Are you aware that Goodwin’s highly allergic to animals?’ and ‘D’you always sit with two cats on your shoulders?’ Of course, my office will smell of cat urine for the next five years, but that’ll just be a nice scent people can identify me with. My own personal brand.”

“So you’ve got a plan then. Great.”

Her face is a blank slate for a couple of moments, then she cracks a smile. “Your plan’s rubbish. They’ll all have a party in my dressing room. The pups can hang out together on the couch—”

“I’d rather have Miles whine at my feet—”

“The cats will have an endless supply of tuna sandwiches—”

“Your beast of a dog will eat the cats.”

“Will you stop calling him a beast of a dog?” she says, covering his ears. “You’re going to give him a complex. And I have a bathroom for the cats.” Her bright blue eyes are eager, hopeful. “Come on. It’s the least I can do.” She waves a hand flippantly. “I don’t even care if your pets destroy the room. It’ll be fine. We can take turns checking on them throughout the day.” Her grin widens. “It’ll be like One Fine Day. We’re just two parents trying to take care of our children, who find that working together is far better than going it alone.”

My chest puffs up. “Miles would never destroy anyone’s room. If anything, your giant dog—”

“Sonya’s giant dog,” she corrects.

“—will be babysat by Miles, who will keep your . . . Bernie . . . from tearing your stars off the wall.”

“Perfect,” Lavender says. “It’s a date.”

It’s not a date.

It’s not even my plan.

And everything within me wants to refuse. Everything in my gut is screaming, No. No. No! But I feel a bit like a soldier backed against a wall. There’s nowhere to go, and the guy with the loaded crossbow is telling me in soothing tones, “C’mon. Just come with me. It’s a plan.” And really, what choice do I have? What do I do?

Go with the guy with the big bow, of course.

A chant is on repeat in my brain: This is a horrible idea. This is a horrible idea. This is a horrible idea. I start to shut the liftgate. Miles looks at Bernie and gives a mild whine just before it shuts, as if to say, Really? You’re going to put me in a room with that thing?

I exhale.

Turn to face Lavender.