The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(100)

“You realize this means you have to stop running from James.”

My stomach does a little flip, and I tell it to stand down. Just because my friends and my brother think there might be some chance for James and me doesn’t make it a reality.

“I wasn’t the only one responsible for blowing up our relationship.”

“Good to know.”

“Chevy,” I say in a warning tone. “You’re not going to do anything stupid to James, right?”

The smile he gives me is straight-up wolfish. “I don’t do stupid revenge, sister. Only smart revenge.”

“Well, in that case, I should tell you about Dale.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX





James



Trying to catch the Orange Cyclops feels like the perfect penance for me. And the perfect apology for Winnie.

“A cat is a terrible grand gesture,” Pat tried to tell me last night. “Just like you don’t give puppies as birthday gifts or baby ducks and bunnies at Easter. Plus, he’s not doing your arms any favors.”

I run my fingernail lightly over one of the long scratches on my forearm. No, OC, as I’ve started calling him, is not doing my arms any favors. But is it bad that Pat’s disapproval only fueled my determination to catch and tame this cat for Winnie? If only determination were enough to capture the dang thing.

In case anyone wanted to know, it’s not enough.

I hold out the plastic bowl filled with canned cat food, giving it a little shake toward the cat. “Come here, you big, orange—”

“He’s not going to go for that.”

I curse under my breath as the cat backs away, tail twitching. Big Mo stands over me. I really need to get the gate fixed so I can lock people out.

It’s been three long days since I fired Winnie and she broke up with me. And at least once a day, some Sheeter wanders in here to check in, which usually turns into a good hour of conversation I don’t want. Yesterday, Judge Judie sent moonshine by way of Burt on his lunch break from security at the courthouse. The day before that, it was the Bobs, who gave their two cents times ten about beer.

Today, I guess it’s Big Mo, here to critique my cat-catching.

“What won’t work?”

“That canned stuff.” Big Mo crouches near me, then opens a small container, pulling out something I can’t quite identify. It smells disgusting. Mo makes some kind of quiet whistle with his teeth and holds out his hand.

Talk about not working. There’s no way this one-eyed orange cat is going to just walk right up and—Oh my gosh! It IS working.

It’s more than a little infuriating to see the Orange Cyclops sidling up to the tall, bearded cook within seconds. As I watch, OC sniffs Mo’s outstretched hand, then starts eating from it.

Right from his hand!

“What is that?”

“Raw liver,” Big Mo says.

Disgusting. “I wouldn’t have thought to try that.” I tried canned cat food. Canned human food—tuna and salmon and chicken. Catnip. Today I came back full circle with a more expensive kind of canned food, the one with the fancy cats in all the ads.

The Orange Cyclops apparently has an even more refined palate. Because he dines on raw liver.

“Your turn,” Big Mo says. “There’s more in the little container.”

I stare down at the liver. I’m not sure I’ve ever looked at liver. I’ve definitely never touched it. And I don’t want to now.

You’re doing this for Winnie. You can do this for Winnie.

When Meatloaf sang his famous song, proclaiming he would do anything for love except for THAT, I have to wonder if the that was pick up raw liver in his hand to tame a stray cat for a woman. If so, that would be oddly specific … and where Meatloaf and I differ.

Because I’m going for it, despite the way my stomach turns as I pick up the raw meat. Raw organs? Whatever.

Trying to ignore the texture, which will give me nightmares for months, I remember my goal: to get Winnie back. Getting Winnie back is worth touching raw liver. Fact.

Am I ridiculous for fixating on this scrappy, stray cat as a way to apologize to Winnie? Probably. Pat told me I’m being stupid, and if Pat says it …

But this cat is Winnie’s white whale, as she refers to him. Maybe it’s extreme (or extremely stupid), but I feel like catching and taming this cat is symbolic of … something. I just can’t shake the idea. Which is why I’m crouching in my warehouse, holding out a slimy hunk of liver.

“Just sit,” Big Mo says. “Let him come to you on his terms.”

I sit, grumbling silently about the idea of doing anything according to a cat’s terms. But Big Mo knows what he’s doing because the Orange Cyclops approaches me, his one eye wary. My heart starts to thud in my chest, and sweat beads on my lower back. I’m not nervous about the cat. I’ve already got claw marks up my arms and one on my cheek. It’s more the idea that this might not work. And, really, the bigger picture of what’s at stake here: Winnie might not want to forgive me, orange cat or no. Or, she might forgive me, but not want to try a relationship with me for real.

The Orange Cyclops sniffs my hand, but he’s taking longer to warm up to me than he did Big Mo. “What am I doing wrong?” I ask, keeping my voice low and even.