Hustle and Heart

chapter-1: Its not wrong if it works

♡ Maxinne~

"Have you seen Mr. Fuzzypants? He didn’t come by for the food I left him yesterday." My cousin Jordyn peeked through my door, brows drawn together. "It’s not like him to ignore food—especially his favorite, the tuna-flavored chunks."

I glanced up from my book, trying to look casual. "Nope. Maybe he’s just off exploring somewhere. Cats can be picky. Maybe he wasn’t hungry or found something else he likes better."

Jordyn frowned. "I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for a while now, and I’m starting to worry."

I forced a nonchalant shrug. "Cats have their moods, you know? And Mr. Fuzzypants like to disappear for days. Remember last time? He was gone for nearly two months. We thought he was dead, but he came back just fine. Maybe he’s just… being a cat."

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Yeah, I guess so. I just hate not knowing where he is."

"I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. Cats are good at finding their way home. Don’t sweat it," I said, nodding—more to convince myself than her.

The truth is, I know exactly where Mr. Fuzzypants is.

A new home.

Yes, you heard that right.

It's been four days since I sold Mr.Fuzzypants to Mrs. Anita, the wealthy lady down the street. And nobody in the house still knows about it—not Jordyn, not Aunt Julia, not the twins and not even the cat himself—or maybe he has figured it out by now.

He was a stray before I took him in, and Jordyn named him after some old movie—Nine Lives, I think.

Despite his ginger fur and grumpy exterior, he was sharp. Almost too sharp. He always seemed to know when and where to show up, as if he was aware of the whole process. When the transaction was done, he'd settle in his new home, enjoy the fancy meals for a few days, and then walk back right into my room without a care.

It was almost as if he understood the game.

We don't call it a crime. We call it business. I mean, Its not wrong if it works right?.

I had an educational trip scheduled for next week, and it was going to be expensive. My part-time job barely covered the basics, and skipping the trip wasn’t an option—this wasn’t just any field trip. It was a research trip, and my grades depended on it. Asking Aunt Julia for money wasn’t even a consideration. She already had too much on her plate, what with her own kids and the weight of taking me in after my parents' death.

Selling Mr. Fuzzypants had been the only logical move, and I knew exactly what kind of clients to target in Woodland Heights—rich people who love having pets but didn’t pay much attention to them.

Mrs. Anita, with her sprawling house full of cats, was our target this time. The odds of her noticing Mr. Fuzzypants were already part of her collection, which was slim to none.

I set the book down with a sigh as Jordyn walked out, but the guilt started creeping in. I needed to clear my head, so i grabbed my bag to run an errand because Jordyn's worried expression was making me itch.

The convenience store’s neon sign flickers above as I walk out of the store, stuffing some snacks in my bag. Despite it only being mid-August, the evening air is unexpectedly chilly. It was getting dark, and the street lamps were already lit, so I decided to enjoy my snacks on a bench under the lamp, which faced a lake on the other side of the road. As I bit on my bagels, a brown scruffy dog came running towards me and whined with hopeful eyes.

“Hey buddy, come here,” I said, patting the bench beside me. He jumped up, eager. I tore the bagels into pieces and watched as he devoured them like they were the last meal on earth.

“Whoa, slow down! No one’s taking them from you,” I chuckled, brushing my fingers through his rough coat. “And just so you know, don’t even think about following me home—I’m broke and can’t take you in.” I sigh apologetically. He wags his tail as he continues too much his food.

“People like you are the reason there have been so many cases of people being attacked by strays,” A deep voice came from behind.

“Excuse me?” I turn around startled, at the same time annoyed by the absurd statement.

I was lost in my thoughts. I hadn't even noticed the guy approaching—my survival instincts clearly on vacation.

“Feeding them, I mean,” he clarified, exhaling a cloud of smoke from his cigarette as he casually leans against the streetlamp looking like he’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine with his perfectly tousled hair and emerald eyes that seemed to glimmer under the streetlight. Every inch of him screamed expensive. There was no denying that this man was insanely gorgeous—he looked rich and bored. And apparently, he is also nosy.

“It encourages them to stay around, to become a nuisance”. He continues. “And it’s not just the strays. They’re not the only problem.”

“And what would you suggest I do? Ignore them? Let them starve? Do you have any idea what that’s like?” I interrupt, trying to steady my voice despite my rising irritation. Why am I even arguing with a stranger? I asked myself.

“Not ignore,” he said, taking the last puff and dropping down the cigarette butt right by my feet “But maybe find a more controlled way to help. There are shelters and organizations that can handle this better.”

He leaned in closer, the combined scent of smoke and cologne almost overwhelming.

“You know, that brain of yours isn’t just for show, right?” His smirk, which was infuriatingly attractive. I didn't know I was holding back my breath until he straightened up, stuffing his hands into his pockets as if ready to leave.

I scoffed “You think you’re making some grand point, don’t you? But here’s the thing: it’s not just about your precious control. It’s about doing what I can with what I have. And if you’re so concerned about me feeding strays, how about you pick up that cigarette butt you just tossed? Like you said, "Be smart and use your brain”.

He raised an eyebrow, dismissive. “It’s just a cigarette butt.”

“Exactly—thoughtless and disrespectful. So pick it up.”

“Or what?” he tilts his head, A strand of his dark hair fell over his brow as his smile turned slow and taunting.

And just like that, his dimples appeared.

Oh, hell no.

Woah,woah–wait did my stomach just do this weird, traitorous flip? I was just arguing with him. How did i get here? Son of a duck, what is wrong with me?

“youre staring.” he smirks

I scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn’t staring, I was just—” I wave a hand vaguely, trying to play it cool and ignoring the fact that I absolutely was staring. “—thinking.”

“Thinking,” he repeats, amused. “About what? My devastating good looks?”

I roll my eyes. “More like wondering if arrogance is a genetic trait.”

He nods his head, pretending to consider it. “You know, for someone so small, you have a lot of opinions.”

I flash him a saccharine smile. “And you talk a lot, for a guy—and I am not small, excuse you.” S

“Well you—” Before he could say anything further, a sleek GT pulled up, and the girl in the driver’s seat rolled down her window, revealing a stunning face. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, dark waves cascading over her shoulders. She could easily pass as a young Megan Fox, and honestly, it was borderline unfair.

Geez. How many ridiculously attractive people did this street need? Was there a casting call in which I hadn’t been invited?

And the worst part? If these two ever decided to have a baby, the world would just have to accept the arrival of the most absurdly gorgeous human to ever exist. Like, unfair levels of gorgeous. It was honestly offensive.

"Rafe, where have you been? I tried calling you a thousand times.” she huffs, clearly annoyed with him.

"That’s my ride, Good luck with your strays, and you can pick that up if you're so concerned about it.” He motioned to the cigarette butt.” He winks, earning a scoff from me. He sauntered over to the passenger side without a backward glance.

I sat there as the car sped off, contemplating what had just happened. I was already dealing with my fees-life crisis—barely scraping by, trying to survive.

And now, apparently, I was also wasting brain space on arguing with strangers in the street, who had the nerve to treat me like a personal garbage collector. I love my life. (Note the sarcasm ).