Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
The kitten was sound asleep, so he tucked it into the front pocket of his flannel shirt, allowing him to use his hands for other things while keeping an eye on the little guy. It also served as a good reminder that her visit to his home was about a cat. Only about a cat.
By the time Wren arrived at Greyson’s, the sun was setting. She hadn’t meant to take this long, but on her way out of The Haven, one guest after another stopped her for help. None of that mattered, however, as she pulled up to Greyson’s cabin.
When he called, she’d suffered a surge of relief, only to deflate when he confessed he was only contacting her about a stray.
That was her! Hideaway Harbor’s official cat lady—spinster for life.
With a sigh, she grabbed the basket of supplies off the passenger seat and went right into Grey’s house, only to pause when everything was silent. “Greyson?”
A low rumble stirred from the next room, where she found him sitting up and sleeping, his hands folded over his chest as he softly snored. She took a moment to just watch him.
Regret and confusion surfaced as she once again recalled his hands on her. The thought of him never kissing her like that again left her hollow.
She couldn’t think like that.
Setting the basket down, she scanned the room for the cat. When she saw a box on the counter, she peeked inside only to find it empty.
“Uh-oh.”
Searching the kitchen, she found no trace of the kitten anywhere. Making soft little cat calls, she whispered about the house, looking for the stray. When she returned to Greyson, she debated how he’d react to a possibly feral cat being lost in his house.
He looked so peaceful, she hated disturbing him. An open copy of Walden Pond rested over his chest. That was Grey. He always preferred the quiet classics, like Thoreau and Rilke. She closed the book and set it on the table.
“Grey.” She tapped his hand. “Greyson, I’m here.”
He drew in a deep breath and stretched his legs before opening his eyes. When he saw her, he smiled. “Hey.”
“Where’s the cat?”
He sprang up and scrubbed a hand over his face, then searched the cushions. He didn’t seem to be fully awake yet, but the moment his brain roused, his panic disappeared. “He’s here.” Reaching into the front pocket of his shirt, he withdrew the tiny puff of grey.
“Awww.” She took him into her hands and cradled him close. “He’s precious.”
“I call him Rat.”
She frowned at him. “That’s horrible.”
He shrugged. “He looks like a wet rat.”
She clicked her disapproval and spoke to the cat in motherese, “I won’t let him name you after a rodent.” It was a tradition at The Haven to name all the rescues after holiday words. That was why they had Figgy, Nog, Snowball, Garland, Spruce, and Sugarplum. “You look like a Tinsel to me.”
“You can’t call him that. He needs a manly name, or the others will bully him. He’s already got a size disadvantage.”
The kitten was definitely the runt of the litter. “There weren’t any others?”
“Nope. Found him shivering under the porch.”
“Thank goodness you heard him.” She gave the kitten a nuzzle and then drew back. “First things first, you need a bath.” She looked over at Greyson. “You probably want to throw that shirt in the wash. Chances are he has fleas.”
She carried the cat to the kitchen and got to work. First, she set out a towel, soft washcloth, mild, unscented baby shampoo, and a small plastic cup, then she filled the basin of the sink with an inch of warm water.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Greyson stripping out of his shirt and tossing it into the wash closet down the hall. Her lips parted as he reached for the laundry detergent, thick ropes of muscle twisting along his arms as sinew stretched and rippled down his back with every turn. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him.
Her stomach dropped as he bent over. The curve of his spine and those exposed muscles were not something the average man could claim. She swallowed and removed her jacket, suddenly warm.
Greyson turned—caught her staring—and she dropped her attention back to Tinsel.
“Well,” she said, forgetting for a moment what she was supposed to be doing. “How about some Enya to set the vibe. This is your first spa visit, after all.”
She tapped her phone and pulled up one of the playlists she used at The Haven for various treatments. Enya’s crooning voice paired perfectly with the trickling water. Tinsel sidestepped her fingers and stumbled along the counter, chirping away like a little cricket.
“What did he put in that milk? You’re walking like you’re drunk.”
“He’s probably feral,” Greyson said, sneaking up behind her.
Her spine stiffened when his bare arm reached past her to scratch the kitten, and she realized he hadn’t put on a fresh shirt.