Count Your Lucky Stars (Written in the Stars, #3)(43)

“You need to wait until your . . .” She trailed off. Cat mom? Handler? Human? Hell if she knew. “You’ve got to wait ’til Liv comes back, you little monster.”

Margot couldn’t just waltz inside Olivia’s bedroom, even if the door was open. There were boundaries. Having sex didn’t automatically negate their need for their own space. Privacy. They’d never said bedrooms were off-limits, but wasn’t it implied? Margot couldn’t just—

Cat wailed like a banshee, hitting a pitch that shouldn’t have been possible. Margot cringed and—fuck it. If ever there was a time to throw caution to the wind, it was now, her eardrums practically bleeding as Cat freaking caterwauled. It wasn’t like she’d be snooping through Olivia’s belongings. All she wanted was to figure out what the hell was wrong with this cat and make her stop screaming. Olivia would understand.

Margot stepped inside the room and flipped the lights. She cast a glance around the room, gaze stutter-stopping at the corner near Olivia’s closet. Cat sat beside her litter box with a subtle yet discernible frown on her already scrunchy face. Her ears were down and flat, and she wailed once more.

Margot held her breath and stepped closer and—

“Are you shitting me right now?”

Cat blinked, utterly unrepentant.

Margot pulled her shirt up over her nose. Cat hadn’t bothered to cover her business. Just left it there, bold as could be, in the center of the litter box.

“I’m not cleaning that,” Margot muttered. “You can wait until Olivia comes back.”

Cat looked up, doing her best damn impression of Puss in Boots, all wide, innocent eyes. A sad little mew escaped her. Margot shook her head, turned on her heel, and—

Another one of those banshee-like screams filled the air.

Margot shut her eyes.

This was her life now. Being led around by a cat, a cat who had destroyed her favorite vibrator, and now demanded she clean up her poop. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Margot huffed and spun on her heel. “Okay, fine. Just this once. This is not going to become a habit, you hear me?”

Cat stared.

Pooper scooper . . . pooper scooper . . . where would Olivia keep a scooper? Margot checked beside the litter box, finding a stash of lightly floral-scented bags for depositing Cat’s business in. But no scooper. She crouched low and checked under Olivia’s desk. Squat. Beside the door. Nope. Unless it was right in front of Margot’s eyes and she’d missed it, the pooper scooper was nowhere to be seen.

Cat let loose another aggrieved-sounding meow as if this was taking too long.

Margot took a deep, bracing breath and shook open one of the pastel pink bags. A sweet lavender scent filled the air, masking the odor coming from the litter box. Margot shoved her hand inside the bag and crouched in front of the box.

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this,” she muttered.

Cat stood and circled the box, taking a seat directly beside Margot, watching. Inspecting. Judging.

Hand encased in a thin layer of plastic, Margot carefully reached inside the litter box, fishing out the piece of poo.

“This is degrading,” she muttered under her breath. “And demoralizing.” She glanced at Cat, who had her little head cocked up at Margot, eyes wide, whiskers twitching. “Wipe that self-satisfied smile off your face.” Cat leaned in and bumped Margot’s arm with her head, starting up a low, rumbling purr. Margot’s insides melted. “Oh, Jesus, you’re too cute. You played me like a fiddle, didn’t you? Ugh. I bet you’re laughing inside, aren’t you? Ha, humans have thumbs, but look at you, shoveling my shit. Who’s the smarter species now?”

“Margot?”

Oh, shit.

Margot shuffled on her knees, pivoting to face the door. Olivia stood, laundry basket propped against her hip, a frown furrowing her brows.

“Um.” Margot lifted a hand, the one protected by a thin layer of plastic, holding Cat’s poo. “This isn’t what it looks like?”

Olivia pressed her lips together, looking like she was trying not to laugh. “Honestly? I don’t even know what this looks like.”

Margot dropped her chin and chuckled. “Okay. Your cat kept whining and she—she pulled a Lassie and led me in here and there was”—she waved her hand and, okay gross, that was a bad idea—“this. I couldn’t find your litter scooper, so I . . . improvised?”

“You improvised.” Olivia’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“People pick up their dogs’ droppings with little plastic bags all the time. This isn’t any different.”

Except for the mortification. That was exciting and new.

Olivia set her laundry basket down and crossed the room. She stepped on the foot pedal of the trash can against the wall and pointed at a handy-dandy compartment tucked inside the lid, where the pooper scooper was hidden out of sight. “It keeps everything nice and odor-free.”

“Right.” Margot’s face warmed as she stared at her hand full of cat poo. “This isn’t awkward at all.”

Olivia laughed. “I, um, appreciate the effort.”

Carefully, Margot slipped the plastic down her arm and over her wrist, turning the bag inside out. She tied it off and tossed it in the open can, Olivia’s foot still depressing the pedal for her.