Hosed (Happy Cat #1)(26)

“He’s out in the square gnawing on a dildo right now.”

Shit. My phone beeps again. “Good to know. Talk to you later, Ruthie May.” I hang up and switch over to Cassie’s call. “Hey, pretty neighbor. You doin’ okay?”

“Ah, um…” she replies, her voice strained.

“Listen, don’t sweat it. The sheriff will figure out—”

“No! No, please don’t call the sheriff.”

“Cassie?”

“It took me twenty minutes just to work up the nerve to call you. Promise me you won’t call the sheriff.”

“Okay, okay. No sheriff. I’m coming over, and we’ll figure this out, okay?”

“Can you—could you—leave your phone at home?” she whispers.

“I—”

“Please?”

“Okay.”

“Just let yourself in. The door’s open. Bye.”

She hangs up before I can ask anything else. I hesitate long enough to grab the hot plate of waffles, then I dash out the door and across our lawns. When I get to Savannah’s house, I duck under the Steve The Cheater Doesn’t Live Here Anymore sign, give a quick knock, then push the door open. “Cassie?”

“Are you alone?” comes the muffled answer from somewhere near the back of the house.

“All alone,” I confirm, setting the plate on the coffee table in the living room before pushing farther into the cottage. “You okay?”

There’s a pause. “Mostly.”

I follow her voice. “Where are you?”

“The bathroom.”

There’s a wince in her voice that sends me speeding through the living room and down the hall to Savannah’s bedroom, which is almost as Zen-like as I would’ve imagined it. Warm colors on the walls, paper lantern lampshades, and the soft scent of something I can’t identify tickles my nose. “Cassie?”

“You left your phone at home?” Her voice echoes from a doorway around the other side of the king-size bed with the white fluffy comforter that’s wrinkled in the middle of the mattress. Despite my best intentions, I can’t tamp down the primal surge of arousal that ricochets through me at the thought of Cassie tangled up in that bed.

“Phone’s at home. What’s wrong?”

“Just—” There’s a huge sigh. “This is so freaking embarrassing,” she mutters.

“Can I come in?” I ask, hesitating by the door to the open bathroom.

“Yes,” she moans.

Slowly, I step inside and for the second time in five minutes, I’m speechless.

She’s covering her face with her hands, but her cheeks and neck are scarlet, flaming red. Even her arms are blushing.

So are her bare legs.

Which are sticking out of the toilet all akimbo, her toes at attention in the air.

She’s stuck in the toilet, the poor thing. The room is so large, she can’t touch her hands or her legs to the walls except maybe the wall behind her, and the toilet is one of those insanely tall models.

“My ass is trapped,” she says without taking her hands off her face. One eye is completely blocked by her cell phone, which has a cover featuring a cartoon Viking sticking a flag in a planet. “I’ve fallen into the bowl and I can’t get out.”

I fight a laugh. “Hazard of having such a petite backside, I suppose.”

She groans beneath her breath. “Can you not look at me while you pull me out? And then go home and pretend this never happened? I need one of those flashy memory-wiping thingies from Men in Black. Where’s the app for that?”

I cock my head, studying the situation, figuring I should be able to lift her out by her armpits. “Consider my memory wiped,” I assure her. “I’m going to grab you around the ribs and pull, okay?”

“With your eyes closed and no cameras and no judging my grossness?”

My chest aches. “Cassie,” I say gently. “Hey. Look at me.”

She parts her fingers and peers through the cracks at me with one eye. Her cell phone is still covering the other. I don’t ask how she managed to hold onto her phone while falling into the toilet—it’s both irrelevant and understandable.

Who among us has not played Candy Crush while using the facilities?

“No one’s taking any pictures you don’t want taken,” I promise. “Not on my watch. And I won’t breathe a word about this to anyone. Promise. You’re safe with me.”

She stares at me without blinking for three long heartbeats, long enough for me to feel the weight of the realization that I can’t always keep her safe, or protect her every minute of the day.

But I can shield her from Mortification By Toilet.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I take that as permission, close my eyes, wrap my arms around her warm tee shirt, and tug.

She makes a glerg noise, and I realize her legs are stuck pretty good.

“I have a defective bottom,” she grumbles. “I should change my name to Cassie Weirdbottom.”

I smile, but keep my eyes closed. “It’s not you. It’s the toilet. Where did Savannah get this thing?”

“Torture Toilets R-Us?” she guesses.

I stop myself from laughing, only because I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her instead of with her. “Didn’t realize there was a market for those.”