Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 31927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
My brothers are still yapping in the kitchen, but I’m on a mission. I have paperwork to fake, a dinner to plan, and a sexy-as-hell woman to drive completely out of her mind. The rest of the day can suck it.
CHAPTER TEN
ELSIE
I’m floating on air. I can’t believe I’m on my way home to pack up Mr. Snugglebutt to head over to Beckett’s house—to stay over. Things are moving at the speed of light, and I couldn’t be happier.
This is right—I can feel it, bone-deep. Every time I catch Beckett’s stare, or the way he tucks my hair behind my ear, my heart does that wild, panicked dance. It’s a little crazy how much I’m already hooked on him. I don’t even care if it makes me look desperate or reckless. I want this man, and I want every messy, chaotic second that comes with him.
He makes me feel seen, like maybe I do actually belong here in this small town with my oversized cat and my stubborn streak. Maybe it’s foolish to go all in so soon, but I’d rather crash and burn than spend another day without him.
So, I do it. I put my entire heart on the line.
Mr. Snugglebutt pops out from behind the couch the second I close the door, eyes huge and suspicious. He’s sniffing the air like he knows something’s up—a sixth sense for Trouble. I make it two steps into the kitchen before he launches into a yowl so operatic it could shatter glass.
“I know, I know. I’m late. Again. Sue me.” I dump my keys and shoulder bag in the entryway, then grab his bowl. I dump in a scoop of the expensive stuff and brace myself as he leaps onto the counter, tail lashing. He’s so dramatic. “If you’d just be patient for two seconds, you wouldn’t have to act like it’s the end of the world.” That’s a lie. Mr. Snugglebutt lives for the drama.
While he inhales his food like he hasn’t eaten since the Clinton administration, I hustle to the bedroom and yank my overnight bag out from under the bed. I toss in my favorite sweats, two clean scrub outfits, a couple of pairs of socks, and the good underwear. Call me prepared.
Mr. Snugglebutt materializes in the doorway, licking his chops and giving me that “what now, peasant?” look. I pop open his travel carrier and brace myself for the battle. He’s already eyeing it like it’s a medieval torture device.
The second I pop the door open, he flattens his ears and bolts for the far side of the room. I lunge after him, managing to grab a fistful of orange fluff just as he disappears under the bed.
“You’re coming with me, mister.” Wrestling Mr. Snugglebutt into the carrier is a full-body workout. He howls like I’m murdering him, but I finally manage to close the crate door. “You’d think I was sending you to a meat-packing plant,” I mutter, shaking my head. “It’s just a sleepover, you drama queen.”
He glares at me, eyes slitted, plotting my demise, and I know there will be vengeance.
Whatever. We’ll see how long he holds a grudge once Beckett starts doling out treats.
I double-check my bag, snag my phone charger, and remember at the last second to grab Mr. Snugglebutt’s favorite toy mouse off the living room floor. I’m not about to show up for our first official sleepover and have my cat lose his mind because I forgot his emotional support mouse.
Mr. Snugglebutt huffs as I wedge the toy into the side pocket of my bag, like he’s insulted I’d even think he needs a comfort item. Sure, buddy. We both know you’ll be dragging that thing around the minute no one’s watching.
Mr. Snugglebutt howls the entire way down the apartment stairs, going full soprano. God. I hope no one reports me for cat torture.
Mr. Snugglebutt yowls nonstop from the passenger seat the entire ride to Beckett’s house. Every time I crack the window or say something reassuring, he cranks up the volume. I reach through the wire door and stroke his fur, hoping for calm. His tail puffs up another centimeter. I’m getting the death glare of the century. I try to bribe him with a few words and a tickle through the bars, but Mr. Snugglebutt is officially not having it. The yowling gets louder the closer we get. By the time I pull into Beckett’s driveway, I’ve got a throbbing headache and a sneaky suspicion the cat might be plotting to murder me in my sleep.
I kill the ignition and just… sit there, breathing like I just finished a marathon. Maybe I’m nuts for doing this. Maybe we’re moving way too fast. But the idea of going another night without Beckett? No way. I’d rather risk being labeled a desperate hot mess than lose even a single second of this.