Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Clyde emits a high-pitched, wobbly meow in response, making my forehead wrinkle.
“Oh, I know, sweetheart,” I coo. “I’m sure it’s super scary. You’re about to bring new life into the world. I’d be terrified, too. But you’re not alone. And Starling is a brilliant human who will tell us exactly what to do, I just know it.” I wave Matty toward the bed. “Comfort her while you google. She needs to know we’re here for her.”
“Got it.” He eases up to the bed, sinking down on his knees on the carpet closest to our expectant mama. “Hey, buddy,” he murmurs as he strokes her paw. “We’ve got you. Don’t worry.”
Heart swelling at this glimpse of Matty’s tender side, I ease back toward the living area, promising myself that I won’t give in to the urge to girl talk with Starling. I need to get the cat birth scoop and get off the phone—do not confess that I slept with Matty, do not ask her if she thinks I have a shot at convincing him to stay in Bad Dog, do not get squealy about how amazing he is in bed and how perfect it feels to fall in love with him.
That’s what’s happening, after all. It’s what’s been happening for months. This is so much more than chemistry. Matty and I have such a real connection and so much potential, all we needed was a few days alone for it to flower. We’re already so much closer than we were even this morning. By the time we spend the next day or two alone together, who knows how far we’ll have come?
And if he’s still determined to leave when all this is over, at least I’ll have the memory of this time with him and his glorious cock.
“Best cock ever,” I mutter to myself, shivering a little as I pull up Starling’s number and move to the kitchen sink to splash cold water on my face.
I must focus and concentrate on bringing Clyde through the transition to motherhood, safe and sound.
But as soon as Clyde and her kittens are safe?
Well, then all bets are off.
Matty
I watch Nora leave, trying not to stare at the place where my dress shirt dangles temptingly beneath the curves of her ass like the world’s sexiest miniskirt.
But who am I kidding? Nora’s ass is a work of art, and I’ve been without a woman in my bed—or anywhere else in my life—for far too long to resist taking a beat to soak in the way her hips sway as she moves.
She’s so graceful, so sexy, so fun and kind and creative and everything I’ve told myself I can’t have.
But maybe…
My thoughts are interrupted by a low moan from Clyde as she kneads the covers with her claws, her blue eyes slitted.
“Sorry, buddy,” I say, scratching her softly between the ears. “Got distracted for a minute.” I cock my head, watching the small cat pant. “So, what’s the story? Are you the real Clyde, and you’ve been a girl the whole time? Or did Wimpy steal the wrong cat?”
Clyde emits a deep belch followed by a pitiful meow that becomes a hiss and a swipe at my arm.
I pull back, holding my hands up in surrender. “Message received. I get it. I don’t like anyone touching me when I have a stomachache, let alone what you’re going through. Just hang tight, we’ll make sure you get the help you need.” I type “emergency vet” into the open search engine on my phone and see we’re only about ten miles from a well-reviewed facility—one of the benefits of being in a bigger city.
Another benefit is that this area has a much higher elevation than Bad Dog. Despite the rain continuing to fall in sheets outside the window, there are no flood warnings anywhere around the hotel. We’ll get soaked to the bone if we have to take Clyde to the vet, but we won’t run the risk of getting swept off the road.
Unfortunately, it looks like the folks back home aren’t getting as lucky.
As a familiar reporter’s face appears on the screen, I grab the remote and turn up the volume.
It’s Dipsy Dobbs, my cousin and cheery “girl on the street” junior reporter. Dipsy is twenty-three, with the red hair and freckles most commonly seen in my Aunt Margie’s family. She usually reports on the apple pie bake-offs in the summer or ice-fishing in the winter, low-key local color stuff. She dresses in ridiculous “small-town” outfits—overalls with gingham or a giant flannel parka with fish patches—and spends most segments grinning like she just escaped from a 1950’s print ad.
This is the first time I’ve seen my cousin in something as normal as a heavy-duty black raincoat or looking this serious.
“Thanks, Jarod, yes, that’s right,” Dipsy says, accepting the hand off from the anchor sitting at his cozy desk back in the newsroom. She stands in front of a bridge that’s nearly underwater, blocked by a barricade with flashing red lights spinning in the gloom behind her. She squints into the rain as she adds, “Bad Dog emergency services personnel are asking that local residents stay off the roads and do their Black Friday shopping from the comfort of their homes this year. The floodwaters are rising faster than anyone expected, and as you can see, many local roadways are already impassable.”