Semua Bab The Purrfect Wingman: Bab 11 - Bab 20

I never realized how small this hotel room was until Zach Dayton’s shoulders were in it. Broad, firefighter-built, entirely too distracting shoulders that somehow made the space feel even more cramped than it already was.We were trying to reorganize, the polite term for cleaning the disaster zone that had exploded in the twenty-four hours since I moved in with a traumatized pregnant cat, six newborn kittens, and a growing stack of takeout containers. But mostly, we were trying not to trip over each other, the luggage, or the cluster of curious, wobbly kittens that occasionally ventured too far from Spitfire’s carefully guarded nesting box.“Remind me again how this much laundry exists when you barely brought anything from your apartment?” Zach asked, scooping up an armful of clean clothes and tossing me an amused look over his shoulder.“It’s mostly towels and blankets,” I muttered, trying to untangle a hoodie from the mess on the second bed. “For the kittens. Or Spitfire’s throne. Or

Sleep wasn’t happening. I’d been lying here for the better part of an hour, staring at the water-stained ceiling of this glorified shoebox, running through every breathing exercise I’d ever learned in a textbook and still, no luck. My pulse was too wired. My thoughts wouldn’t shut up. Mostly, it was because of him. Across the room, in the other bed, Zach lay sprawled out on his back, one arm crooked behind his head, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. His stupid, infuriatingly solid chest. Which, unfortunately, I’d caught a glimpse of earlier… dripping wet… courtesy of my own mortifying timing. I groaned under my breath and rolled to my side, glaring at the clock glowing from the bedside table—12:47 a.m. Brilliant. At least the room was quiet now. The kittens were asleep in their box, Spitfire curled around them like a furry, calico barrier to the world. Her tail twitched every so often as if she were standing guard even in sleep. Meanwhile, I was battling the swirlin

I took the fastest shower of my life, but not before grabbing fresh clothes from my small stack of salvaged options and ducking into the cramped hotel bathroom like the room itself might judge me for what I was about to do. Okay, I wasn’t about to do anything scandalous. But I was about to stress-change clothes for apartment hunting… and possibly, maybe, hypothetically… catch Zach’s attention. Not that I was admitting that part to myself. The bathroom mirror was streaked, the hotel towels scratchy, and my reflection decidedly frazzled as I towel-dried my curls and tried to make myself look like a woman who had her life together. I didn’t, obviously. My life had been a barely functional pile of chaos ever since my apartment went up in literal smoke, but that didn’t mean I had to look like a disaster. Unfortunately, my wardrobe options were… limited. Most of my nicer outfits hadn’t survived the fire, and what I’d bought after was purely functional: a few basic tops, jeans, leggings,

Sleep didn’t come easily. It never really did anymore, not with the stress of the fire, the kittens yowling at all hours, and the lingering scent of smoke that seemed permanently etched into my sinuses. But last night? That was a different level of restless. Somewhere between exhaustion and frustration, my brain decided to betray me. I dreamed of Zach. Not the panicked, smoke-choked memory of him hauling me out of my apartment, or the awkward near-kiss by the kittens’ nesting box, but a dream version of him. Warm. Steady. Hands lingering on my waist as he laughed in that easy, low voice of his. We were… God, we were having dinner at his place, his real place, similar to the apartment I’d toured, with its high ceilings and soft lighting. It started innocently enough, small talk, good food, playful banter. Then it shifted. One second, I was finishing my drink, the next, Zach was pulling me gently onto his lap, his hands sliding along my thighs as his lips ghosted over mine. The hea

Two days later, life had fallen into a weird, barely functional routine. I wouldn’t call it stable, not when I was still living in a glorified motel room with carpet I didn’t trust barefoot and a lingering smell of industrial-strength lemon cleaner, but it was functional. Zach’s schedule rotated between his shifts at the firehouse and sneaking in time to hover over me and the kittens. At the same time, I juggled my residency, classes, and the constant worry that my bank account was preparing to sue me for emotional distress. It wasn’t ideal. But somehow, it worked. Except staying in a cramped, overpriced hotel indefinitely? That wasn’t a real plan. Which is how I found myself standing in the leasing office of Zach’s building, nervously twirling a pen between my fingers as I signed my name on the rental agreement for apartment 3F. The keys jingled as the landlord handed them over, and I stared at them for a second longer than I should’ve, like they might spontaneously combust if I ack