Charming as Puck(3)

Fresh anger surges through. She should be on a farm. With her mommy.

And she probably would be if Nick hadn’t started the farm-animals-in-the-apartment game when Felicity fell in love with one of his teammates a year ago.

“Don’t you worry, Sugarbear,” I tell her. “I’m going to find you the best new home ever. After I figure out where you came from. And you are not going to be ground beef. But until I can find a place, you need to stay here for a few more hours. I recommend pooping on the bed if you need to do it again.”

I wince, because I’ve spent a lot of time in that bed with Nick driving into me until I shattered like spun glass on marble.

Though last night it was on the couch.

Where the cow is now.

I blink back the angry tears stinging my eyes.

Nick Murphy might be an ass, but he knows how to use his equipment.

And I was an idiot to think he could’ve ever seen me as something more than an easy lay.

But not anymore.

“Ground beef?” Muffy says, and I realize she’d actually gone silent. “Pooping on the bed? What—who’s Sugarbear?”

“The calf that I agreed to get out of Nick’s condo this morning.”

“Oh. This is all starting to make sense. I can give you the friend and family discount, but I have to add the over-thirty surcharge.”

“The what?”

“Sad fact of being a woman. You’ll be harder to match now that you’re the big three-oh.”

Of course she remembers my birthday. “Fine. But I want a rush job. And don’t cheat me, or I’ll charge you the old-cat surcharge the next time you bring Rufus in for his shots.”

“He’s three!”

“That’s like seventy-six in cat years.” Okay, it’s not. But I’m mad. At everything. Except the cow.

“Ooooh, I get it.” I can hear Muffy nodding. She inherited the loud nodding gene from Aunt Hilda. “He forgot your birthday, didn’t he?”

“Can you do the rush job or not?”

“I’m gonna match your muff so hard and fast, you won’t know what hit it.”

“Oh, gee, add a muff punch while you’re at it. That’ll go great with the knife twisting my heart,” I mutter.

“Okay. Let’s do this. New file, Kami Oakley…”

While keyboard keys click on the other end of the phone and Muffy breathes in my ear, I give the calf a quick once over. I don’t work with large animals, even if I’d love to live in the country and have a small farm of my own, but she seems reasonably healthy. Especially with that mess she left on Nick’s rug. Both messes, actually. Kidneys, intestines, and colon are all apparently in perfect working order. And she’s clearly interested in the grains, so that’s good.

I was worried she wouldn’t be weaned yet.

“You’re such a good girl,” I tell her.

“I know,” Muffy says.

The cow moos at me and nuzzles my hip.

I glance around the living room. Since I’m here, I should clean out anything I might’ve accidentally left here, but with our arrangement, I don’t even have a toothbrush.

Still, after I set out food and fill Nick’s biggest pot with water in the kitchen, I wander through the empty apartment, Sugarbear on my heels while Muffy talks to herself about all of my basic details.

Yes, I’ve named the cow. And she is definitely a Sugarbear.

I actually name all the animals I get called in to re-home when the Thrusters are done with them.

And there’s another surge of fury.

Animals are not pranks.

But the only thing yelling at hockey players will do is encourage them to turn the pranks to me.

Unless…

Ideas are taking shape.

Ideas that rational, kind-hearted, animal-loving, sweet Kami—if I had a nickel for every time someone called me sweet, I’d be richer than all the Thrusters players combined—would never entertain.

But ideas that just might be necessary.

When in war, do what the most hardened warriors do.

“Okay, got the basics,” Muffy announces. “Just a few questions.”

“Just a few? Don’t you have an entire questionnaire or something?”

“I do, but I know you well enough. I can do it for you. Now. Men or women?”

“You don’t know me well enough to answer that question for me?”

“Sometimes family hides things. Both is also an acceptable answer.”

I give half a thought to if I have any interest in women, and I decide I’m lacking that gene, which is probably too bad. “Men, please. But no hockey players. Or baseball players. Or football players. Or—”

“No sportsers. Got it. How many kids do you want? Keep in mind zero is a valid answer.”

“Three,” I reply without hesitation as I walk into Nick’s bedroom with the cow on my heels.

The dark blue sheets on his king-size bed are disheveled and twisted and the thick navy comforter is tossed to the ground. I take my time straightening the covers and making the bed while I answer Muffy’s questions about my favorite color, which planet I’d be from if I weren’t an earthling, and how many times a week I masturbate.

And while I write Nick a note.

Dear Nick,