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)
Mr. Snugglebutt lets out another screech, louder this time. If I don’t feed him in the next thirty seconds, I’m pretty sure he’ll start gnawing my toes.
“Alright, alright, keep your pants on,” I grumble, shuffling to the kitchen.
He’s already parked on the counter, glaring at his empty food bowl. I pop open a can of premium “Tuna Krill Supreme,” and he goes full goblin-mode, inhaling the food before I place the bowl on the floor.
Once His Excellency is appeased, I flop against the fridge and take a second to catch my breath.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t had anything since the sad granola bar I ate at the ass crack of dawn. I pull open the refrigerator door and start rooting around for anything edible, then remember the sad microwave dinner I impulse-bought last week in a fit of optimism.
I throw the tray on the counter and mentally prep myself for the world’s least exciting dinner.
That’s when there’s a knock. I freeze for a second, wondering who in their right mind would visit me at this hour.
I peek through the peephole and almost swallow my own tongue.
Beckett. My entire body instantly forgets how tired it is.
“A little birdie told me you didn’t have lunch today.” He holds up the bag, and I catch a whiff of what’s inside and almost faint. Fiesta Frolic. Not just good Mexican, but the absolute best in all of Riverbend Ridge. I can smell salsa, melty cheese, and the citrus zip of fresh-squeezed lime. This bag is carrying me straight to heaven.
I clutch the doorframe, blinking. “How did you even know how much I love Fiesta Frolic—”
He grins, wolfish and pleased with himself. “The same little birdie told me you’re obsessed. Word is, you’d sell state secrets for their enchiladas.”
I laugh, and it comes out way too giddy to be cool. “Oh my God, I owe Hanna a raise.”
Behind my legs, Mr. Snugglebutt finally notices we have company. He creeps forward, belly low, eyes fixed on Beckett like he’s a mountain lion and Beckett’s the fresh kill. The cat’s tail puffs up to double its size.
I can’t help it—I laugh again. “Careful. He attacks anything that threatens his reign of terror.”
Beckett’s mouth twitches. “I think I can handle the fluffball.”
Mr. Snugglebutt inches closer, then pauses—close enough to sniff, but far enough to retreat if the mountain of muscle at my door makes any sudden moves.
CHAPTER FIVE
BECKETT
Elsie’s still grinning as she gestures at the living room. “Sorry about the mess. I had grand plans to deep clean, but Mr. Snugglebutt had other ideas.”
Mr. Snugglebutt, as if summoned by the sound of his own name, flattens his ears and flicks his tail so hard it thumps against the chair leg. The message is clear: Die, interloper. Die slowly.
I set the takeout bag on the counter and raise both hands in a gesture of surrender, but the big bastard doesn’t blink. Elsie rolls her eyes and nudges him with her foot. “Don’t mind him. He hates everyone, including me. He’s basically a feline mafia boss. You’re safe if you stay away from his food bowl and don’t insult his weight.”
“I’ll remember that,” I mumble as I follow her into the small apartment. While I head to the living room with our dinner, she grabs us two glasses of water.
“Water is the only thing I have.” She apologizes and sets the two glasses on the table. “I haven’t been grocery shopping this week.”
“Water is great,” I tell her as I open the bag.
She flops onto the couch, legs tucked under her, grinning like a kid at Christmas as she stares at the Mexican takeout bag. “You’re my new hero.”
I slide onto the couch beside her, close enough that my knee brushes hers. “I couldn’t have my girl going hungry,” I tell her.
I take a second to scan the room, letting my brain inventory every single detail. There are two cat trees—one in the corner with frayed sisal posts and tufts of orange fur caught in the carpeted platforms, another by the window where a half-dozen catnip mice have been abandoned like casualties. Books are stacked on every surface, medical journals mixed with dog-eared paperback romances. A collection of mismatched coffee mugs crowds the end table, most sporting animal puns or rescue clinic logos. The whole place radiates Elsie—warm, slightly chaotic, and unapologetically lived-in.
Mr. Snugglebutt is still posted up, tail flicking, watching my every move like he’s expecting me to rob the place. It’s both impressive and slightly unnerving.
Elsie follows my gaze and sighs. “Ignore him. He’ll warm up… or he’ll hold a grudge forever. Could go either way.”
I snort and start scooping out enchiladas onto a paper plate, lining up the plastic utensils before handing the setup over.
The heat comes off her in waves. I fight the urge to reach over and tuck that wild red hair behind her ear, just to see if it’s as soft as it looked in the bright lights of the vet’s office. Her eyes search my face like she’s seeing something she likes, and I don’t hate it one bit.