Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 111(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 111(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
Which is why, when I find a terrifyingly huge cat-alien male hip-deep in my favorite fishing spot, I don't run away in fear.
I introduce myself.
Is it reckless? Sure. But I've never met anyone quite like the feline Hrrrusek. And when I catch him marking my door as his territory, instead of calling for help...
I invite him in.
This instalove novella features a heroine who's having fun being reckless and a hero who doesn't know what hit him. All vibes, very little plot. Enjoy!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
One
CHELSEA
There’s a cat-man in my stream.
It’s strange to see. I mean, this is an alien planet, and I should be used to seeing things that are slightly out of the norm. The grasses here have a different texture than the grass back on Earth. The sky is a little bluer than back home, the vegetables a little strange to the palate, and the cattle look a bit more sheep-like than, well, cattle-y. Those I’m all used to.
But this stream never sees anyone but me. So to find a stranger in my stream this early in the morning is strange. The fact that it’s an alien man is a double whammy.
Risda III is really quiet when it comes to those sorts of things. My memories are full of unpleasant visits to crowded stations that are dirty and smell like musty, recycled air. Of people everywhere and all of them loud and dismissive of humans. None of those memories are good ones, except the one where the nice pirate lady bought me and brought me here to Lord va’Rin’s pastoral planet and set me free. That was two years ago, and I don’t think I’ve seen a man outside of Port since then.
I certainly haven’t seen a cat-man.
I crouch in the bushes by the stream and watch him. I don’t think he’s aware of me just yet. Risda III is, for the most part, rolling hills and sunny plains—at least this part of the world. My farm is tucked between two particular rolling hills, which means I get a lot of pooling water in my fields when it rains, but I don’t mind. Having soupy fields beats being a captive on a space station, after all. There’s not a lot of trees in our particular neck of the woods (so to speak) but there’s deep streams that cut through the landscape that are perfect for fishing. I’ve staked out this particular stream as my favorite, because there’s a section in the middle that’s deeper than the rest and that’s where the big fish hang out in the heat of the day. It’s my stream. It’s on my property, after all.
Bushes line the banks of my stream, providing natural cover, and I continue to crouch in them, watching as the big male stands perfectly still in the water, staring down at the surface. He has an expression of frustration on his face and he stands so un-moving that I wonder if there’s a purpose behind his stillness. Isn’t there a type of fishing where you stand still and grab the fish as they come up to you? I rack my brain, trying to remember the word for it.
Noodling—that’s what it is. Is he noodling? If so, I’m not sure he’s going about it the right way. He seems far too…tense.
I watch him as I crouch low in the bushes. It’s my first time being this close to a praxiian—the catlike race—and I have to say they don’t look as weird as I recall. This one has faint orange stripes in his fur, a bit like a tabby cat, and it takes a lot of the intimidation out of his appearance. His chest is enormous and thickly built. I don’t see defined muscle, but I get the impression that he’s very strong. He’s a little soft around the middle, but who isn’t? It doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s probably at least a foot and a half taller than me and probably weighs twice as much—and I’m a big girl.
The stranger doesn’t have a completely cat-like face, either. His mouth is split under the nose like a cat’s, but his nose and muzzle aren’t nearly as pronounced as they would be if he had an entirely cat face. Intelligent bright amber eyes peer out from his buff-and-orange-colored face. And he has whiskers. A fucking grown-ass man has whiskers. That makes me clap a hand over my mouth to keep from chortling, because it’s both ridiculous and adorable.
He lifts his head, as if sensing my nearness, and I wonder if the wind changed and brought my scent to him. Either that, or I snicker-snorted louder than I should have. I could swear his tail moves under the water, and that seems to anger him. He growls, swatting at the surface with a look of pure frustration, like a cat that just watched his meal disappear.
Oh my god, this really is cute. I have to know what the heck he’s doing. “Excuse me, sir. Are you noodling?”
The male stiffens and his shoulders flex, and I see thick muscle moving. He’s got huge arms. Huge everything, really. He turns toward me and those whiskers twitch as his nose moves. “Who’s there?”
I get to my feet, using my fishing rod as a walking stick, and cock a hip as I grin. “Me. You’re in my stream. Not that I mind. I’m just wondering if you’re noodling. That’s all.”