Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Why?”
“It can be telling. Informative.” He tilts his head as his eyes drag up and down my face in observation. “Dunno which kind, but definitely a housecat. Oh, maybe a Turkish Van.”
“And what are you?” I spit back. “A dog?”
“Nah. Dogs don’t really fit me. I mean, sure, yeah, I’ve got a lot of puppy-dog energy at times and I’m as adorable as one, but I’m not sure canine really fits me in all aspects.”
“So a housecat fits me? That’s your assessment?”
“So far.”
“In other words, I’m bitchy, hate people, hiss at children, and push things off of countertops just for the satisfying noise of them shattering on the tile below?” I rethink it. “Hmm. Maybe that does fit me.”
“Cats are smart. Calculative and cautious. Sure, they got a bad rap for being standoffish, but I think they’re just misunderstood. That’s the thing with cats.” He looks at me. “They warm up to you the longer you’re around them.”
I eye him. “I’m not any kind of cat or animal. I’m a person.”
“Cats are people, too, with feelings and thoughts. Mmm, and I sure would pay a pretty penny for yours.” His eyes continue to dig into me as he smiles in that annoying, presumptuous way.
That annoying, beautiful, presumptuous way.
Every single time he smiles, his eyes light right up, pulling me in like a fish caught on his hook. It hurts just the same, but not in a physical way, unless you can count the unseeable squeeze of the heart when gazing upon something as inviting as tasty bait on a deadly hook, and you’re ever-so hungry.
Each time you try to pull away, he tugs you closer.
Reeling you in.
Like meat.
Just then, TJ emerges from the back with six big pastry boxes, ending our little moment by the window with a cheery grin and a lighthearted: “Order’s up, boys!”
Chapter 6
More Animal Than You Can Handle.
The trunk shuts heavily after we load it.
Then we’re heading back down the long country roads out to the Strong ranch.
Impressively, Samuel keeps his promise of not bringing up a thing about Jimmy, Bobby, or anything at all while we’re trapped in the claustrophobic confines of the vehicle. Silence is our friend.
Until we make an unexpected turn off the long country road. “Wait, isn’t the Strong ranch—?”
“Yep, the other way,” he answers merrily. “But I just realized I gotta make one last stop before we head back to the ranch.”
“One last stop? We have baked goods in the back.”
“It’ll be quick,” he promises me. He hasn’t technically broken a promise yet, so I guess I’ll hold him to it.
Not that I have a choice.
We come to a stop in front of a small, yellow vet clinic on the outskirts of town, with nothing around us except an old, dusty gas station at the next intersection half a mile away. A sign hanging on the inside of the door reads “CLOSED” in red cursive letters.
Samuel shuts off the car. “You can come with me or hang out inside Mortimer, your choice. I should just be ‘bout five minutes.”
“What’re you doing? It’s closed.”
“Good thing I got this,” he sings, producing a key and wiggling it with a cocky smile. “You comin’ or not?” He hops out of the car before I can answer.
I frown in confusion for two and a half seconds, then give in.
The one wide window at the front of the veterinary clinic is traced by a fluffy white garland with tiny jingle bells attached. As he unlocks the door, I notice mistletoe hanging overhead, which I promptly ignore. As Samuel pushes inside, I reluctantly follow, prepared for an onslaught of animal stench. Surprisingly, the somewhat cramped lobby is quite clean, smelling vaguely like fruit. I stand by the door like a coatrack as Samuel makes his way to the front desk. He stretches over the top of the counter and types on the computer instead of coming around it.
Leaning over the front counter the way he is, his fitted, red plaid shirt pulls up just enough to reveal his upper thighs in his butt-hugging jeans. My eyes are instantly glued to his buns as they dance slightly from his awkward effort of typing while reaching over the counter. Why he doesn’t just go around and sit in the chair, I don’t know, but my eyes are thanking his decision not to.
“You scared or somethin’?”
I rip my stare off of his ass at once. “H-Huh? What?”
“You’re staying by the door like the room’s ‘bout to bite you.”
I cross my arms, plant my merry feet, and stay right where I am. “Well, you said you wouldn’t be long, so—”
“You can still take a seat. Kick back. Relax.”
I glance at the couch and imagine the thousands of drooling, sweaty dogs that have leapt onto it and slobbered on its cushions. “I’m good.”