Ten Things My Cat Hates About You. Lottie LucasЧитать онлайн книгу.
outside makes my breath stop.
There, under the glow of a streetlamp, is Casper. And he’s slinking across the road.
Damn that cat. No wonder he’s looking furtive. He knows I don’t like him going out there. Granted, I live on a quiet residential street, far too hemmed in by cars parked on either side for anyone to drive too fast down, but still. That’s not the point. I fling open the window.
“Casper!”
At the sound of his name he stops, turning his head to look up. Just as a cyclist suddenly appears from behind the cars, whizzing towards him.
“Stop!” I yell, but it’s already too late. The cyclist swerves violently, tyres screeching against the tarmac. I can only look on in horror as they overbalance, finishing upside down in a nearby bush, the wheels of the bike spinning uselessly.
For a split second I’m stunned into immobility. Then I’m running, bursting down the stairs and out into the street.
“Are you all right?” I gasp, snatching Casper into my arms. Mercifully, he seems more put out than anything, glaring at the bicycle as though it did him a personal injury. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a flash of white tail disappearing into the bushes and immediately the object of his evening wanderings becomes clear. I should have known there’d be a lady involved. There’s not a lot else which he would prioritise over dinner.
It’s a sad fact when your cat has a better love life than you do, I think glumly. Maybe Heather was right, after all. Maybe I really do need to take some time to just be by myself for a bit. Stop chasing rainbows which don’t exist. After all, it’s not as if suitable men just pop up out of …
I look at the bike, skewered into the bush, and out of nowhere something begins to fizz beneath my skin, a prickle of excitement.
Surely not … I mean, it can’t be. That would just be crazy.
“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m fine,” a voice supplies from the depths of the foliage. “It’s the cat we should be concerned about.”
Despite its somewhat muffled tone, the sarcasm is unmistakable and I feel myself flushing, startled out of my reverie.
“Of course, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
The cyclist struggles out of the bush, helmet askew across his face, and, despite myself, my breath catches in anticipation. Now he’s standing upright, I see that he’s tall, towering over me by almost half a foot. I’ve always liked tall men.
I’m doing exactly what I promised I wouldn’t; I’m getting carried away again. I know it. But that doesn’t mean that I can help it. I mean, come on. I’m only human. And it doesn’t get much more romantic than this, does it? It’s like a meet cute in a movie. Any moment now, he’ll push up his helmet and our eyes will meet. Electricity will spark between us. And he’ll say something like … Oh, I don’t know, maybe something like …
“Just about, no thanks to that bloody animal. What the hell was it doing in the middle of the road, anyway?”
I jolt backwards as though I’ve been slapped, his acerbic tone acting like a sledgehammer on the lovely rose-tinted vision I’d created.
Okay, definitely not something like that.
“It was my fault,” I say quickly as Casper bristles in my arms with a growl, obviously aware of the slight. “I called him and he turned to look. It was perfectly natural behaviour on his part.”
“Yes, well …” He straightens his helmet and I can see the outline of his face in the slanting light from the streetlamp. I can make out a strong aquiline nose, a sculpted jaw and a pair of dark eyes. Despite myself, I find myself wondering what colour they are and I mentally slap myself down. Stop it, Clara. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough. Just thank every higher entity that he can’t read your thoughts.
I’m cringing inside just thinking about it.
Mercifully, he doesn’t seem to notice me staring. In fact, he’s not looking at me at all. So much for my fantasy that our eyes would lock; he hasn’t even so much as glanced at me once throughout our whole exchange. Instead, his attention is fixed upon the ground around our feet. “That’s all very well for you to say. But just look at what you’ve done!”
I follow his gaze, and for the first time I notice that there are papers scattered all over the road. A battered folder lies in the midst of it all, its mouth gaping open, more papers spilling out from within. They’re looking decidedly worse for wear, having landed on the rain-dampened tarmac. Most of them are splattered with mud, and one or two even have bicycle tracks across them.
I know I should be feeling guilty about that. But something about his abrasiveness sets my teeth on edge. Perhaps it’s the dull sense of disappointment I still feel which makes my own response somewhat sharper than I’d intended. This man is definitely no romantic hero.
“What I’ve done? Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. But this was clearly an accident.”
I’m not sure if he’s even listening to me. He’s scrabbling around after the papers, gathering them into a haphazard pile.
“This is priceless research!” he snaps, although I half wonder if it might be directed more at himself than me. “Utterly irreplaceable.”
Casper obviously takes exception to it anyway, because he lurches forward with a protracted hiss, compelling me to tighten my grip on him.
The man half glances upwards and, although I can’t see his face in the dark, incredulity colours his voice. “Did he really just hiss at me?”
I jut out my chin defensively. “You did almost run him over.”
“He got in my way, I think you’ll find. He’s bloody lucky I managed to swerve in time.”
“Clara?” Freddie’s standing in the open doorway, his arms folded across his body against the cold. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Always the last one to the party, my brother. I almost want to laugh. But I have a feeling that wouldn’t go down so well with the indignant man in front of me.
“It’s fine. I’ll be back in a minute,” I call softly, relieved when Freddie disappears back inside the house. The last thing we need is to attract even more attention. I can practically feel the curtains twitching as it is. I turn back around, determined to do the decent thing. After all, despite what I said, I am indebted to this ill-mannered cyclist. I dread to think what would have happened if he hadn’t flung himself to the side of the road. And that bush looked pretty spiky. I’m sure we’ve got a first aid box inside somewhere. Or some plasters, at the very least. I can offer to …
My thoughts trail off as I observe that my charge is already pulling his bike out of the bush and climbing on. One of the wheels is bent out of shape, the spokes twisted at an unnatural angle.
“You’re not going to try and ride that home, are you?” I exclaim. “Let me call you a taxi. It’s the least I can do.”
“No, I’m fine,” he says tersely. Then, “Thank you,” he adds in a voice which, if not exactly gracious, is noticeably gentler. He gives an awkward cough. “That’s very kind. But there’s no need.” He tries to push off. The bike wobbles precariously, almost ending up in the bush all over again. Instinctively, I rush forward, although what I’m hoping to do with Casper still in my arms is questionable.
“Really, if you’ll just let me …” He holds up a hand, his eyes closing briefly as though in pain. Then he tries again, and this time it works. After a fashion. I watch as he cycles away from me, the bike lurching alarmingly to one side and then the other, muttering darkly to himself in a language which, for a few seconds, I can’t understand. Then, out of the deep recesses of my brain, something begins to stir.
“Is that …” Freddie has appeared at my