Just Don't Fall (Sweater Weather, #1; Appies, #1)

by Emma St. Clair

But what woke me is unfamiliar—this pain is needle-sharp, stabbing my chest in a steady rhythm. Stab. Stab. Stab. When I open my eyes, I am face-to-face with a black feline of monstrous size. My very first realization that I’m on Parker’s sofa—hence the aching back. This is quickly followed by the memory of everything that happened with Parker last night, which is likely the reason for my headache. These thoughts though are quickly eclipsed by a more immediate worry. Because a cat whose name is a shortening of Evil Demon Spawn is currently parked on my chest. How in the world does this cat hide underneath furniture? He looks like he could eat furniture for breakfast. Is he actually a domestic cat? Or some kind of bobcat house cat hybrid? Despite his sheer size, he doesn’t look nearly as intimidating as he sounded when growling at me the time I was here for dinner.

Though I’ve never owned a cat, I know enough to recognize that kneading his paws on my chest is a good sign. Even if it hurts. So is the rumbling purr I hear. “Hey, there, pretty kitty,” I say in a soft voice. I’m not sure if Parker is up yet, and I don’t want to wake her if she’s still sleeping. I also would prefer not to upset the cat status quo. I prefer this pleasant version of Mr. Eds to the evil demon spawn version.

We’re clearly not on the same page. I’m not sure our books are in the same bookstore. And now I’m confused and sleeping on her couch with a FOMS (feline of monstrous size) kneading me with his needle claws.

She trails off when her gaze lands on my chest. Then her mouth curves up in a smile, and it’s the best thing I’ve seen all morning. So far. Pointing, she says, “You still seem to, um, have a cat on you.” I sit up and then pull my shirt away from my body to look. Sure enough, black hair in the shape of a large feline is right in the center of my white tank.

“Well, I’ve got an Americano, a cappuccino, and a pumpkin spice latte. Plus a variety of creams and sugars. Pick your poison.” I notice there’s a fourth cup, one she didn’t gesture to. “And what’s that one?” “That’s a chai latte,” Parker says. “For me.” “And what if chai lattes are my signature drink?” I deadpan. Without any hesitation, Parker pushes the cup my way. “Then it’s yours.” And this is a perfect illustration of the problem I’m facing. Parker is so good at doing what’s best for other people. So giving. So generous.

“I don’t know. But we should probably make sure we’re on the same page about what this looks like.” I lean closer and lower my voice. “Because if you were mine, I’d be sure everyone knows it. There would be no question in anyone’s mind.”