Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
I bite back a laugh of my own because he’s only half joking.
Not long after we tied the knot and found out I was expecting, we moved away from Seattle proper, sprawling into the suburbs like a good dual-income family with ample money to burn.
But this mansion has over two acres and six bedrooms.
We’ve found a place for all of them, plus two true guest rooms that serve us nicely whenever friends or family visit.
I lay my hand on his chest, pushing playfully. “Aw, come on. Three more cats will max out our space. We’d be using it efficiently.”
“No more,” Brady calls gruffly, loud enough for Freya to hear. “The girl needs time to focus on her homework.”
“School’s easy! I’ll have time with ten cats, Dad!” she yells back, sitting cross-legged, thankfully a comfortable distance from Buttercup. “Just gotta get him to love me first.”
“Of course he’ll love you. Give it a week or two for him to settle in,” I say, kissing little Noah on the cheek and setting him down. He immediately toddles off toward the new carrier, only to be stopped by his big sister as she scoops him up.
“Noah,” Freya whines. “Don’t get close, he has to get used to us. And Mom said I get to hang out with him first!”
“Be nice to your brother,” Brady growls.
“Kitty!” Noah yells, clapping his hands.
Chaos, I think.
But that’s the life we chose.
The sweetest chaos with two rambunctious kids and our own private menagerie. Thankfully, two of our dogs are seniors: Queenie and Rufus. Aside from our little dynamo corgi named Liz, the dogs don’t pay too much attention to the new arrival.
To them, it’s old hat.
No doubt when Buttercup makes his presence known, they’ll have more to say.
“He’s going to need time to recover and rest. So even when he’s nicer, you have to be careful,” I tell Freya as I help set the table.
At this point, I don’t know if the toy on the floor I’m stepping over belongs to the dogs or Noah.
Probably both.
“With you in charge of his recovery, he’ll probably grow his ear back in no time.” Brady grins, bringing our food to the table.
I stop and take a second to appreciate his perfect face.
It isn’t fair. This man wears age like a designer fashion statement.
Just the slightest hint of early grey silvering his hair.
If I’m lucky, he’ll have that distinguished silver fox look his father has, minus the thorny attitude.
The lines around his eyes when he smiles will absolutely slay me no matter how long we’re together. He always smiles like he means it too.
Sappy or not, I think I fall a little more in love with him every day.
Before we met, I couldn’t imagine crushing on an older guy, but here we are.
“I’ll take him downstairs,” Freya announces. She has to use both hands to hoist up the cat carrier. No matter how underfed and scrawny he is, she’s still just a seven-year-old.
“Easy! You know the rules,” I say. “Set him in there and make sure the door stays shut. Do not let him out. We’ll do that later, after dinner.”
“Fiiine.”
She’s been scratched enough times to count over the years. I’m going to trust she won’t “accidentally” let that door pop open, if only to save her own skin.
I don’t put that sort of faith in this cat.
But then again, he’s stopped hissing like a cornered snake.
Most animals handle children pretty well.
Freya certainly has good instincts, I guess. Brady insists she gets it from me, but while I’ve always been there to help, I haven’t ever had the same knack for making animals trust me.
There’s a difference between understanding the creatures you’re treating and having them immediately love you.
My heart unexpectedly brims at the thought of this starved, lonely cat experiencing real love for the first time.
It’s a big cruel city out there with a ton of strays around. I certainly wish it wasn’t.
Buttercup doesn’t know it yet, but he’s a very lucky boy.
Just as long as he learns to share his heart with a bright-eyed seven-year-old girl who thinks it’s her life’s mission to save as many forgotten animals as possible.
I don’t think it’s possible to be this proud.
“I love you,” I call to Freya, who’s already bounded partway downstairs.
She turns and looks at me with a frown, her blue eyes puzzled and patient and too old for her years.
“Well, yeah,” she says seriously, lugging the carrier.
“Do you think she’ll be okay with our new friend?” Brady asks.
I wince.
He still remembers the time I brought home our last foster kitten. The little beast scratched his arm and barfed formula all over him the second he took away the bottle.
I kiss his cheek. “She’ll be fine. Freya has her father’s knack for new arrivals, and we’ve drilled it into her a thousand times, right?”