“Mmm,” I muttered.
“You’re a fan of chicken?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Oh, absolutely,” I said. “Chicken thigh. Chicken pecs. Chicken biceps.” I froze, then cleared my throat. “The whole chicken, I mean. You can just put it straight in my mouth.” I bulged my eyes, then stared at the countertop in regretful contemplation.
Sebastian gave me a confused look over his shoulder, then went back to cooking.
Within a few minutes, food was sizzling on pots and pans, and he was moving around the kitchen like he actually knew what he was doing.
I studied his back but shifted my thoughts to wonder what his deal was. Something must be wrong with him, after all. Why was he so against commitments? And a guy like him would have no shortage of women trying to tie him down. I bet he had to leave the house with a huge stick to beat them all away. “If I cut you open, would I find wires and microchips inside? Or is it like this YA series I read once. They take all the well-bred babies and send them to a boarding school to basically rule the world. By the time they come out, they’re all ridiculously good at everything. Except somebody forgot to teach you good manners. Or… how to seem normal.”
“I don’t know if I’d admit you read YA books,” he said evenly.
“When I was younger,” I said. Technically, a few weeks ago, I was younger.
Sebastian gave the pan of veggies a skillful toss, then turned to face me. “I planned to explain all this in the morning, but I might as well tell you how to look after Mr. Meatball now.”
I pursed my lips. The damn man had a knack for completely ignoring my questions and changing the subject if he didn’t feel like answering. Suspiciously, I thought that’s exactly what a hyper advanced sex robot would do. That, or a highly trained pretty baby. Very suspicious.
“Why are you narrowing your eyes at me?” Sebastian asked.
“Hm?” I said, jolting a little. I just realized he’d been talking. “Repeat that last part?”
He sighed. “Try to listen carefully. Mr. Meatball can be very… erratic if his routine is disrupted.”
“Have you ever wondered if you’re enabling his behavior by catering to his every whim?”
Sebastian went back to focusing on the food and talking to me over his broad shoulders. “Do I look like a cat psychologist? No. I haven’t put that much thought into it. I just know he causes chaos when things don’t go the way he pleases.”
“Okay. So how do I keep Mr. Meatball pleased?” I asked, making my best effort not to sound sarcastic, no matter how I felt on the inside.
“He only drinks sparkling water. If you try to give him tap water, he’ll tip the bowl over. He eats six meals per day exactly three hours apart. He’ll be ready for his first meal at five AM sharp. You can find the cans of wet food under the sink, and he likes them warmed in the oven, so you’ll need to wake up a little before five to preheat the oven and get his food warmed. About three minutes at two hundred and fifty degrees is what he likes.”
I stared in disbelief at Sebastian’s back. I honestly couldn’t tell if he was messing with me now. There was no way a cat was going to know the difference between his food being microwaved or pre-heated in a two hundred and fifty degree oven. And sparkling water only? I seriously wondered if that was even healthy for a cat.
“Are you writing this down?” he asked.
I grunted, reaching for a pen that was sitting near the sink. I opened my palm and started scribbling what I could remember of his instructions so far. Five meals per day, first at six. Two hundred degrees…
“Mr. Meatball also goes for three walks per day. He’s very slow, and he’s very particular about where you take him. Just let him lead the way and you’ll be fine.”
For a moment, I actually considered throwing my hands up in surrender and leaving. This was too much. I’d pictured leaving cat food out twice a day and maybe scooping up some kitty litter while I had the rest of my time to write. What Sebastian was describing sounded a hell of a lot more like taking care of a neurotic psychopath than cat sitting. No wonder he had trouble keeping this position filled.
Except I couldn’t just leave. I put a hand on my belly, as if I was going to feel a baby that was only four months along kick. Maybe four-month-old fetuses did kick? I made a mental note to go down an internet search rabbit hole when I had my laptop back. I had all kinds of expectant mother questions and very few answers.