“Coffee and the buffet for me.”
“Please,” I add.
“What would you like, Kathleen?” Joe asks me.
“The same for me, please,” I say.
“Make that three,” Joe says. “And I’ll take the bill afterward.”
“No—” I’m about to tell him I’ll be paying, but James talks over me.
“Sweet, I’m going in.” He slams his chair into the woman again.
She whirls around, black eyes blazing. “Excuse me.”
“What?” James says.
“Can you please stop hitting my chair?”
He throws her a skeptical look. “Maybe, if you could get a little closer to your table.”
I want to disappear. The woman’s build makes it difficult for her to do what he’s asking. As her expression turns from irritated to shocked to stormy, I jump to my feet again.
“I’m so sorry. I promise he won’t hit your chair again.”
“So rude.” She says to me while shooting poisoned arrows at James’s retreating figure. She turns around as I sit in his chair and pull it as far forward as possible. I can’t make eye contact with Joe.
He doesn’t say anything for a minute. “I can see what you’re dealing with.”
I nod, trying not to cry humiliated tears. “I just don’t know what to do when he’s like this. Which is most of the time.”
Joe takes my hand across the table and squeezes it softly, then holds it. When I finally calm down, I look up and smile my thanks.
“Okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“Listen, before your brother gets back, I want to tell you what an amazing evening I had with you. I tossed and turned all night, wanting the sun to hurry and rise so I could be with you again. You look stunning again today, by the way.”
My skin tingles all over with the compliment. “So did I. And so do you.”
He’s wearing casual pants and a thin-striped, light blue golf shirt that brings out the sunny sky in his eyes. His hair is spun gold in the light from the windows. I’m gripped by the urge to lean in and kiss him.
We must actually be leaning, because James makes a noise.
“Gross. Scoot over Kathleen.” He stands beside our table with a giant plate loaded with waffles, a pile of bacon, potatoes, and a full-sized muffin. I don’t know where he puts the food he eats.
“Buffet?” Joe asks me.
“Sit over there,” I hiss at James, pointing at my old seat next to Joe. No one occupies the table behind it. I make sure to tuck in my chair tightly.
Joe smooths my fingers with his as we stand in line for a plate.
“Kathleen, I’m just going to lay my feelings out here. I want to spend every minute of this convention with you. As many as you can spare. I don’t want to waste a single second being apart.”
I meet his eyes. “I . . . want that, too. We’ve started something, haven’t we?”
He pulls me close and kisses me. “I’d say so. How’s Junior?”
“He’s fine. I left him in the room to keep Juliet company.” I pick up a plate and plop a scoop of scrambled eggs on it.
“Who’s Juliet?” Joe asks.
I grin. “My cat.”
“Your . . . cat?” His forehead wrinkles.
“Yes. She’s why I’m here. She—”
“Kathleen!” James yanks on my free arm. “They have doughnuts! Like actual, frosted and sprinkled doughnuts. I’m getting a dozen.”
“James, no, wait. A dozen is too many.”
“Why? It’s a buffet, and he’s paying.” He jerks a thumb at Joe.
“James!” I’m hissing again. “This is not your best behavior. Get one donut and go sit down.”
“A dozen!” James yells.
Everyone at the buffet, probably everyone in the restaurant, stops what they’re doing and turns to watch us. A quick glance at Joe shows me the worried look on his face is even more pronounced now.
And with that, I know one thing for sure. James will ruin my fragile new relationship with Joe and probably CatFest, too. Like he’s ruined everything else in my life.
Happy birthday to me.
Chapter Nine
“I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee.”
- Romeo and Juliet (Act 2, Scene 2)
Joe
Well, James is . . . interesting. I could use other words to describe him, but I won’t. Like I told Kathleen, what he’s like doesn’t matter. I’m sorry he frustrates her and that she seems to feel so responsible for him—he is a grown man, after all—but he could be a twenty-foot tall rampaging lizard and it wouldn’t change how I feel about her.
That said, as Kathleen and I say goodbye after breakfast and agree to meet for lunch, something else does worry me very much. Her cat’s name.
Juliet.
When I first got Romeo’s account going, I’d reached out to a woman who owned another Instagram-popular Persian cat named Juliet. Her Shakespearean-themed account had inspired Mom to dress Romeo up in blouses and tights in the first place. But Juliet’s owner had been not only unreceptive but downright icy. She said we copied her account—as if Shakespeare hasn’t been copied a million times over the last five hundred years.
The online sniping got worse as Romeo’s followers grew. Juliet’s owner and I locked ourselves into a stupid online feud. The fans picked up on it and joined in. I never knew her name; I’m not even sure Juliet’s owner is a woman. But now . . . I’m uneasy.
Because I’m fairly sure that Juliet’s owner, whoever he or she is, hates every cell in my body. And if it’s Kathleen . . . I can’t think about that.
With knots forming one by one in my gut, I go back to my room and check on Romeo. He’s going to need a little grooming before the meet and greet at ten. But first, I need backup. I walk to Boyd’s room down the hall, which I paid for, and knock softly on the door.
“Boyd, it’s me,” I say as quietly as I can, mindful of the closed doors around me.
There’s no sound from inside his room. I call his cell, wait as it rings and goes to voicemail, and then pound. “Boyd! Open up!”
I put an ear to the door and listen. There’s a rustling now. Relieved, I wait. It seems to take hours, but he eventually opens the door. He looks pale and stubbly, and the whites of his squinting eyes are pink.
“Can I come in?” I ask. “I might have a very big problem.”
He rubs his head and steps back. “Yeah, sure.”
His clothes from last night are strewn on the floor, and his room smells like someone spilled a pint of vodka. I think it’s his breath, but I’m not sure. I sit in a chair in the corner as he pulls on a T-shirt and flops back onto his rumpled bed, banging his skull on the headboard in the process. He winces.
“What happened last night?” I ask.
“Your fans happened,” he says.
“What? What do you mean?”
“So, I was sitting there finishing my drink after you ditched me—”