Most Valuable Playboy

For a moment, the segment cuts to Internet video I’ve shot of Zeus clambering up a hill on a nearby trail, then we return to the studio where Camilla has escorted my boy to some fake rocks set up for this demo.

She’s wearing heels so she walks alongside him, but he scurries up the rocks then down the other side. Note to self—score this cat some commercial work and see if we can retire on Friskies royalties.

But then, I’ve no interest in slowing down. My life is the textbook definition of so fucking good. My business is thriving, my family is healthy and happy, my friends are settling down. There’s only one thing I long for. Well, not a thing. More like a lovely, captivating, I-just-click-with-her someone.

But now’s not the time to dwell on a certain woman.

Camilla returns to her blue chair, and I park myself on the couch again, alongside my loyal companion.

“Now, assuming your cat doesn’t become an Internet meme of a cat on a leash,” Camilla says, and the TV monitor nearby flicks to a shot of a leashed-up feline playing possum on the sidewalk, “What should viewers know if they want to hike the Appalachian Trail with their very own Fluffy?”

I spend the next forty-five seconds reviewing trail safety with cats. After all, hiking with a cat is not for the faint of heart. People with dogs have no idea how easy they have it. Hiking with a feline is a whole other kettle of fish, but well worth it for the photos alone. We’re talking unexpected goldmine. When my sister Evie plunked this cat down on my doorstep and begged me to give him a home, I had no idea he’d turn out to be, one, totally cool, and two, the best marketing ever for my adventure tour company.

When the segment ends, Camilla thanks me and cuts to a commercial. “See you again next week, Patrick. I’ve been thinking we could do a piece on first aid in the woods.”

“Absolutely.”

“And you know what I’ve been dying to have you do a segment on?”

“Whatever you want, I can do it,” I say, keeping up the easygoing vibe, since that’s what works best for business partners.

“What if we did a piece on how to glamp?”

I chuckle lightly, rubbing a palm across my jaw, which is covered in a short, neat beard. “I can do that, and I can also give you a simple trick for camping with style right now if you’d like.”

Her chocolate-brown eyes twinkle with excitement. “Please do.”

“Do you have your phone with you?”

“Of course. It’s on silent, but I’m never without my closest companion,” she says, taking it from her skirt pocket, unlocking the screen, and handing it to me.

I tap a few words into the search bar, and the result I need returns quickly. I hand the phone to Camilla. “This is who you call.”

Her reaction is priceless—a slow smile spreads as she recognizes the phone number for the Ritz Carlton.

“So true. What can I say? I’m not an outdoorsy girl at all. But I love your segments. So does my new intern, Taylor,” she says, lowering her voice and gesturing with her eyes to a bubbly blonde who’s waiting to escort me from the set. Funny, since my job requires me to find my way out of pretty much anywhere on God’s great green Earth. Not to mention, I’ve been the guest commentator for the station’s how to make the most of the outdoors segments for a few months now.

The gig has done wonders for business, but nowhere near what Zeus has done.

Then, because I like the furry dude and I don’t want to torture him—and taking a cat for a walk on the sidewalks of Manhattan is a unique and terrible form of torture, I drop him into my backpack, slide the straps on, and leave the studio with the perky cheerleader girl by my side and the cat’s silvery head poking out the top of the pack.

“I made s’mores the other day,” Taylor offers with a big smile, her bright blue eyes meeting mine. “They were so good.”

Her so has eight syllables and all of them drip with innuendo.

“That’s great,” I say, since I’m not interested in entertaining any syllables or innuendo with someone barely past puberty.

“Do you like s’mores, Patrick?”

“Who doesn’t like s’mores?”

“I was wondering, though, if you might have any tips for me on how to make them. Like, how do I get the chocolate and marshmallow to come together perfectly.” She stops at the door, leans her hip against it suggestively, and twirls a strand of her hair.

And I do believe s’mores porn is officially a thing.

Even though I pride myself on making the world’s greatest version of the campfire treat, I keep my answer simple, but clear. “It’s all in how long you let the ingredients age,” I say, since Taylor is twenty, twenty-one at best. “See you next week.”

I say good-bye and leave, catching a train downtown then walking through the streets of lower Manhattan on a Friday morning.

Do I get stares because of the cat on my back?

Hell, yeah.

Do I enjoy it?

Absolutely.

I smile and nod, giving a few salutes and a couple of how are yous and even a meow as a little kid walks by with her mom and whispers while pointing at my shoulder. As if I don’t know there’s a badass pussycat purring in my ear.

As I turn onto the block with my building, he’s not the only one purring.

Because there, right fucking there in front of the lobby, wearing reflective sunglasses and jeans that hug her curves deliciously, is a certain woman.

Mia Summers. Tiny but mighty. A powerful sprite with wavy hair, hazel eyes, a soft heart, and a quick wit that I just dig.

I met her several months ago, and it’s safe to say she claimed center stage in my mind ever since then.

When I see Mia, when I talk to Mia, when I spend time with Mia, it confirms my belief that some things are simple.

Like whether a cat drags his whole body on the floor or he gamely trots alongside you.

It’s a yes or no.

A black or white.

You’re either attracted to your best friend’s sister or you’re not.

For the record, the answer is so fucking much.



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