"Use your brains, people. If Mr. Black's so protective of his cat, why would he hand it over to Amy of all people?"

"They must be..."

"Amy, come out and explain yourself..."

I stay quiet in the group chat. What am I supposed to say? Opening my mouth would only make things worse!

After some thought, I open Noah's WhatsApp: "Mr. Black, your son Happy's tail just let the cat out of the bag about us."

Noah doesn't call until noon - must've been in meetings all morning.

"Talk," he says, as wordy as ever.

I gulp and give him the CliffsNotes version of the Instagram fiasco. I finish with a nervous, "You think people at work might figure out what's going on between us?"

Noah, cool as a cucumber, fires back: "Figure out what exactly?"

"Uh..."

He adds coldly: "We'll discuss this tonight."

Click! Just like that, dial tone in my ear.

Rude much? Even if he is my boss, he could at least say goodbye before hanging up!

Noah's "son" Happy slinks over, eyes half-closed, tail swishing. His big furry head nuzzles my hand as he flops into my lap, all dead weight.

After a while, I set Happy aside and stand up. "Nature calls!" I announce to no one in particular.

So, here's the deal: Noah shelled out big bucks to hire me as Happy's personal pooper scooper.

Happy's a real prima donna, his face screaming "Don't you dare touch me" all the time.

Try to pet him, and he'll dodge your hand like it's on fire. He's always hissing, baring his teeth, and puffing up like a furball with 'tude.

Even his dad, Noah, has to tiptoe around His Feline Majesty's moods. On the rare occasion Happy lets Noah pet him, it's like he's bestowing a royal favor. And if Noah gets to hold him? That's like winning the kitty lottery.

But with me? We're thick as thieves.