The more Shakespearean posts I’d created for Juliet’s account, the more her fame had grown. After a particularly well liked-and-shared post six months ago, she’d gone viral. Now, incredibly, she has a million and a half followers. I created a few pieces of Juliet Catulet merchandise like T-shirts and mugs to sell online and the first batch sold in less than a day.
Other than the meet and greets tomorrow and Sunday, Juliet and I have a dinner and awards ceremony tomorrow night. Well, I have the dinner and awards ceremony. Cats aren’t allowed. And finally, I’m meeting a Purina representative about sponsorship over breakfast on Sunday morning. I shiver with excitement.
If things go well tomorrow night, and Juliet wins the Best Newcomer award that she’s nominated for, then I might be able to 1) work fewer hours at the hair salon where I currently slave away six days a week, 2) build a real business around Juliet’s success, and 3) get James his own apartment.
James needs to get his own place. Yesterday. The Purina sponsorship could be his ticket to adulting and mine to freedom.
A notification appears on my phone, and my mood sours. It’s another comment from Romeo. I mean, not really. After all, Romeo Meowtague is a cat—a very handsome black Persian cat with copper colored eyes and a self-assured expression. The comment is from his horrible owner, whom I’ve never met, or even seen, but assume must be male due to his smarmy arrogance.
romeo.meowtague: @julietcatulet The queen of what? Just curious #romeorules
julietcatulet: @romeo.meowtague You, for one thing. Obviously. #julietforbestnewbie
romeo.meowtague: @julietcatulet Snort. Please, queen, spare me. We’ll settle this once and for all tomorrow night. #romeorules
I make a scornful sound.
Romeo’s owner and I have feuded since he’d showed up one day on the Instagram scene and stole my Shakespeare theme, trying to horn in on Juliet’s fame. He dresses Romeo in little doublets or blousy shirts and tights with wooden swords next to him and the occasional vial of fake poison.
He’d direct messaged me early on about a collaboration. It had made a certain sense, joining the accounts of feline Juliet and Romeo. But on top of stealing my theme, he’d been so pushy and unprofessional about it, sending me repeated DMs when I hadn’t responded right away and never telling me his real name, that I’d soured on the idea almost immediately. We’d gone back and forth for a while before I’d finally said no. I’m not going to partner with an arrogant copycat, no matter how clever his name.
After I’d rejected his advances, Romeo’s owner had started leaving these kinds of nasty comments on Juliet’s account. At first, I’d ignored them. When the comments had become more pointed, I’d tried messaging him to cease and desist. I’d been formal, but nice. When he still hadn’t stopped, I’d blocked him.
But—and I’m not very proud of this—Juliet’s page had better engagement by allowing Romeo and his Meowtagues to comment. The Catulets love the bickering, and the feud had helped grow both of our followings. So, I’d unblocked him and reengaged.
But I absolutely cannot stand the man. And I plan to tell him that in no uncertain terms when I finally meet him tomorrow.
As I’m scrolling through comments, someone touches my arm. I look up and my heart lurches. It’s the handsome red-headed man from the desk, smiling down at me.
“Excuse me,” he says. “Will you shake my hand? I want to tell my friends I’ve been touched by an angel.”
Chapter Three
“Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.”
- Romeo and Juliet (Act 1, Scene 5)
Joe
Boyd and I sit at the bar and scan the drink menu. I can’t find a single recognizable drink. They’re offering a temporary menu catering to the attendees of CatFest, and although I happen to be one, I just want something simple after a long day of travel from Florida.
“What can I get you?” The harried bartender asks. A lock of purple hair escapes her braid.
“I’ll have a Cat-Scratch Fever,” Boyd says enthusiastically.
“A Jack and ginger for me, please,” I say.
“Can’t I interest you in a Cat Pee Tea?” she asks me with one thin eyebrow raised.
“No, thanks.”
“Let me know.” She smiles as she places a cocktail napkin in front of me and then moves down her side of the bar.
Boyd shakes his head. “The hair works its magic again. Why wasn’t I gifted with the family gold like you were? I got gipped.”
I run a hand through my hair. I have to admit that I keep it a little long because the color does seem to attract women. “Bad luck, cousin.”
Boyd sighs. “As usual. So, what’s the plan for tonight?”
“A drink and then dinner?” I suggest. “Not at the hotel, maybe.” I glance around. I mean, I have a cat. I like him a lot. But I don’t need to eat, drink, and make merry with people dressed up like him.
“Sounds good. I could use an early night. I was out late last night.”
“With Samantha?” I ask.
“And all of her friends.” My cousin scrubs his buzzed dark brown hair. “That woman runs me ragged.”
I snort. “And you love it.”
I wouldn’t, I know from experience. Although Boyd and I grew up together, and we’re as close as brothers, he likes women who are fun and flighty, who make him chase them and then tend to dump him in the long run. Not me. I want a real relationship that lasts . . . I just haven’t decided with who yet. I’m almost thirty-five years old. I’ve dodged a lot of female bullets aimed at my heart.
The bartender sets our drinks down with a smile for me. I nod politely back and look away.
And bam. There she is. About four seats away.
Her. The woman I saw earlier at the front desk.
She’s a vision in pink and denim with armfuls of golden red hair that matches my own. She’s tall, a little on the skinny side, and she shines like the sunset over Tampa Bay. Gorgeous.
She’s looking down at her phone, so I don’t stop myself from staring. And luck is on my side, because the woman sitting next to the fiery vision gets up and leaves right at that moment.
I turn to Boyd. “Change of plans.”
His eyebrows pinch. “What? Why?”
“Don’t be obvious, but see the woman down the bar? The redhead? I need to meet her.”
Boyd peeks around me for just a second. “Yeah, she’s hot.”
“She’s breathtaking.” I check my shirt to be sure I haven’t spilled or anything. “How do I look?”
“Fine. Wait, you’re really ditching me?”
“How many times have I ever ditched you in thirty years?”
He thinks about it. “Okay, never. But I flew all the way here with you to hang out—”
I stand and clap his shoulder. “I know, and I’m sorry. But this is . . . fate.”
He sighs. “Fine. Good luck then.”
“Thanks, buddy. See you in the morning. Don’t forget the meet and greet at ten.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he grumbles.