Free Cat's Claw by Amber Benson

hoped not. I so could not afford to gain any weight, or I’d have to go naked. And I meant that literally—I really didn’t have the money to buy anything new if I started splitting the seams on the clothes I already owned.
    Fat comments aside, engaging in a little verbal back-and-forth was old hat when it came to my relationship with Jarvis. I knew when he gave me attitude it was only because he liked me. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have deigned to talk to me at all, the conceited little bitch.
    “The same could be said for you, too, Jarvi,” I said, smiling back at him and showing as much teeth as possible. “I’m surprised Declan hasn’t mistaken you for a rump roast and put you in the oven.”
    “Touché,” he answered, nodding his approval.
    I just have to say now that no matter what I’ve said in the past about Jarvis, he’s a stand-up guy who risked his life to help me. If he hadn’t saved me from the clutches of a would-be baddie, God knows where my family or I would be right now—probably trapped in Purgatory with no means of escape, or worse.
    Jarvis had always been a loyal and efficient Executive Assistant to my dad, but to me, he wasn’t just an employee. To me, he was . . . my friend . A friend who loved to be annoying and give lectures, but a friend nonetheless.
    “So, tell me about this whole summoning thing,” I said nonchalantly as I poured myself another glass of strawberry lemonade.
    Jarvis sighed, pulled a pair of pince-nez from his immaculately tailored navy suit coat pocket—I was pretty sure it was an Armani number, but since I’m not a real menswear nut, I couldn’t be 100 percent certain—and placed them on his hawkish nose. For a faun, Jarvis wasn’t half-bad-looking, I decided. Except for the goat flank, shank, and hooves, he kind of reminded me of a less-laid-back Tom Selleck—especially when he was sporting his Magnum, P.I. mustache, which was for as long as I’d known him.
    “Well, I’m sure you read the notice,” Jarvis began, but I stopped him.
    “What notice?” I said.
    Jarvis sighed again.
    “The notice that was left at your apartment by yours truly,” he said with exasperation, indicating himself.
    “Was it in a red envelope?” I asked, starting to feel a little guilty.
    “Yes,” Jarvis replied warily. “It was in a red envelope. You didn’t throw it away, did you? Oh my Lord, you didn’t!”
    I always hated it when someone had a conversation with you and they didn’t let you contribute . . . especially when they passed Go, collected the two hundred measly bucks, and got to the truth of the matter without your help.
    I also hated the high-pitched—very British-y—tone Jarvis got when he was extremely upset. Total whine city. Seriously.
    “How the hell was I supposed to know it was so important?” I screeched, almost knocking my glass of lemonade over in my agitation. “It was just sitting there for, like, ever.”
    “Do you have no curiosity?!” Jarvis bellowed, the anxious click of his hooves on the wood floor like buckshot. His sharp, intelligent eyes raked mine and I felt so guilty I had to look away. Damn it, why didn’t he just leave me a note or something? I thought angrily.
    “You obviously didn’t see the note I left with it, then, did you?” Jarvis hissed.
    Oops.
    Jarvis stared at me, then shook his head, frustrated.
    “I give up,” he finished, picking up his plate and putting it in the overlarge side of the kitchen sink that was built for scrubbing pots and pans.
    “I repeat,” I said finally, “how was I supposed to know?”
    Jarvis, his back to me as he washed off his plate, said, “You were just supposed to know, or at the very least you were supposed to notice my note and read it.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said softly, feeling like a total heel.
    I had seen the stupid red envelope sitting on my kitchen counter, and, knowing full well that it contained something I did not want to deal with, I had just casually thrown it away