The Introvert's Guide to Online Dating - Emma Hart Page 0,17

not that day.

“Merow.”

I looked down at the ball of fluff at my side. “I just fed you thirty minutes ago. Goodbye.”

“Mrrr.”

“Genevieve.”

“Mrrrow.”

Thank God I wasn’t pregnant. I wasn’t sure I could deal with a child as well as an eleven-pound ball of fluff who was probably just as needy.

With a sigh, I reached down and picked her up, hauling her onto my lap. That lasted all of five seconds before she jumped onto the chair next to me, circled three times, and plopped her fluffy butt down onto my sweater.

Awesome.

Story of my life.

I’d be picking cat fur off that for weeks because no, it didn’t all come off when I did laundry.

Perils of wanting a big, fluffy cat to cosplay a Bond villain in my free time, I suppose.

I drew my wavering attention back to my laptop. I wasn’t technically supposed to be working today, but since I’d woken up to an email from one of my needier clients and I had a thousand and one logos to work on concepts for, I was pushing through the residual hangover and getting onto it.

I uploaded all the logos for Piper to our Dropbox file and sent her a quick email that said they were waiting for her. After that, I reviewed what Sebastian had sent me for his fliers and got to work on a basic layout.

Within two hours, I’d sent him two simple options for two of the classes they were offering with notes and had looked over what the White Peak Daily wanted for their new advertising section.

I had never known why our town needed a daily paper. Literally nothing happened, unless you counted the farm that was rapidly growing at the senior center or the fact that the raccoons were back and raiding the trash cans behind the café.

But that wasn’t even news.

Johanna fed them to get her café on the front page.

That, my friends, is excellent marketing.

I needed a break before my eyes went square.

I scratched Gen behind the ears, resulting in her offering me an elusive purr, and reached for my phone. Colton hadn’t texted me again, thank God, but I did have a missed call from my grandmother.

That was never good.

I hit the ‘call’ button on the screen and put it on speaker. I was pretty sure that her voicemail was about to kick in, but the line clicked on and I heard a very echoey, “Hello? Hello? Stanley, is that you?”

Stanley?

“Grandma, it’s Tori. Who’s Stanley?”

“My doctor,” she replied. “Tori? Are you there?”

“Yes, Grandma, I’m here. What’s wrong? Do you need anything?” I bumped the fridge door closed with my hip. “Did something happen?”

“Yes. Randy stole my liquor.”

I paused. “And what do you want me to do about that at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon?”

“Get me more liquor.”

“I am not running around town to get you alcohol,” I said firmly. “I have work to do and I am not your lackey.”

“Wrong. I used to wipe your butt. You are my lackey.”

“That doesn’t make me your slave.”

“You can’t blame an old woman for trying,” she muttered. “Fine. Can you bring some this week? And some corn for the chickens?”

“Grandma.”

“Fine. Just the liquor.”

“I can’t keep smuggling you alcohol. They’ll ban me from coming.”

“Didn’t you once put vodka in a water bottle so your mother didn’t know you’d stolen some?”

I licked my lips. “I was nineteen. Totally different scenario.”

“So smuggle me vodka in in a water bottle.”

“Grandma. I am not doing that.” I sat back down at the table. “Now do you have a serious request to make for Monday, or are we done here?”

“Yes. I’d like some Nutter Butters, a bag of Cheetos, some frozen peas, some Pop Tarts, and some real coffee. And a bra.”

I wish I’d never asked.

“Frozen peas. What are you going to do with frozen—wait, are they for the chickens? Or the ducks?”

“See you Monday. Don’t forget the vodka water.”

I opened my mouth to argue with her, but the line was already dead.

Goddamn it. The woman was going to kill me.

Shaking my head, I put my phone back down and turned back to my laptop.

So much for that break.

***

“Okay, hear me out.” Piper pointed to the counter. “Daffodils.”

London blinked at her. “Where are you going to find daffodils in August?”

“Fake daffodils.”

“They don’t have the charm of fresh flowers. Or the scent,” I pointed out. “And no, you cannot spritz them with perfume.”

“Ugh.” She leaned against the counter. “I’m nearly ready to open, I just need the design stuff done and then I can