Kitty
I
wake up to a wet nose nudging my cheek and the sound of purring. My eyes flip open, and I’m face-to-face with Prince Francis. He licks the end of my nose, his terrible kitty breath making me turn my head. He gives me a headbutt and meows in my ear.
“Is it breakfast time?” I scratch behind his ear, and he basically throws his entire body against my face.
“Some kitty is frisky this morning.” I roll out of bed and slide my feet into my slippers. It’s barely six, but Prince Francis is proving to be an early riser. And eternally hungry.
I open a fresh can of food, serve Prince Francis his stinky breakfast, and set a pot of coffee to brew. My stomach growls as I check the fridge. While I didn’t stock the fridge like I’m moving in, I brought the makings of a solid breakfast. I pull out eggs, along with cheese slices, ham, and English muffins. I love a good egg sandwich in the morning, but I always make it with
scrambled eggs instead of over easy, because I don’t love the taste or the mouth feel of runny egg yolks.
While I crack eggs into a bowl and transfer them one at a time into a measuring cup, Prince Francis, already finished with his breakfast, meows at me.
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you a bit once it’s cooked.” I pick up the second egg as he jumps onto the counter, just out of reach of my elbow.
“Can I have one too?”
The deep male voice scares the living daylights out of me and I shriek, dropping the egg on the floor in the process.
Prince Francis hisses and launches himself at Miles, who is standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants that are about six inches too short. He’s also shirtless. Gloriously shirtless.
He has a smattering of dark hair on his chest and, as I suspected, he also has defined abs. They’re not as chiseled as the ones often on the covers of my romance novels. It always makes me sad to think that those very well-defined men might miss out on delicious things like carbs and cake in order to look that way, but I’m also curious as to how much Photoshop is used to create all the contours.
Miles has nice abs, the kind I imagine are achieved by exercise. Maybe playing hockey?
I realize I’m ogling him while he struggles with Prince Francis, who has managed to land on his shoulder and bite his ear and is now scaling down the front of him like a barkless tree. Miles’s
chest and shoulders are now covered with angry scratch marks, and a few on his shoulder are welling with blood.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” I tear a ream of paper towels and quickly run them under water, but Prince Francis is heading for the broken egg. The last thing I want is a sick kitty.
I thrust a handful of dry paper towels at Miles. “Can you cover the egg, and I’ll handle Prince Francis?”
“Yeah. For sure.” Miles takes the paper towels and waits until I’ve picked up an annoyed Prince Francis before he quickly swipes them over the broken egg and follows with the wet paper towels to get the rest of the mess.
While he dumps them in the garbage, I wash my hands, then grab new paper towels and wet those, too. I turn to face Miles.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice is gruff and raspy.
It’s also sexy.
Parts of my body that haven’t been getting a lot of attention recently react to the sound of his sleepy voice and the sight of his bare chest.
I move to stand in front of him. “Are you okay? Do we need to get your EpiPen in case?”
“My cat allergy isn’t that severe,” he assures me.
“Still. We need to disinfect those, since Prince Francis walks around in the same box he poops in.” I dab at the places on his shoulder that are bleeding with damp paper towel. There are several spots on his chest.
He exhales in a whoosh when I accidentally skim his nipple. His warm hand wraps around my wrist, and he basically yells, despite
only being inches from my face, “Uh, I need to . . . uh . . . I’ll be right back!”
He spins around and rushes out of the kitchen.
“Make sure you disinfect those!” I call after him. Great, and now I’ve succeeded in making things unnecessarily uncomfortable without even trying.
Prince Francis rubs against my leg. And it isn’t until I look down that I realize I’m wearing a pair of leopard print sleep pants and a pale pink tank with leopard print lace details along the edge of the bodice. And my nipples were just saluting his nipples.
“Why do you have to make everything so awkward?” I’m not sure if I’m angry at my nipples or myself for making breakfast in my pajamas.
I leave the makings of breakfast on the counter and head upstairs, arms barred across my chest so I don’t embarrass myself or Miles more than I already have.
I’m relieved to find the hall empty, so I run back to my temporary bedroom and change into real people clothes, including a bra. I return to the kitchen before Miles. I decide my best plan is to continue making breakfast and pretend nothing happened.
Unfortunately, as soon as he appears again my mouth works before my brain. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t wearing a bra and my nipples were eyeing your nipples.” I drop my head and sigh. “Why did I have to lead with that? I’m so embarrassed.”
Miles leans against the doorjamb, one hand in his pocket. He’s wearing dress pants, a button-down, and a hockey-themed tie. His hair is neatly styled, and he looks far more edible than
my cheesy eggs. He also appears to be fighting a smile. “Nipples aren’t all that concerned about who sees them; it’s just their owners who are, and it was cold in here.”
I crack an eyelid. “It’s mortifying.”
Miles points to his chest. “This guy tackled you to the floor over a water gun.”
“That was pretty bad.”
“It wasn’t my finest moment. I’m still sorry about that.” He comes closer, warm eyes moving over my face.
The way he looks at me sends a thrill through me and makes my nipples peak. Again. Thankfully, this time they’re covered by layers of padding. Man, I must really be in need of some physical release if him looking at me has this kind of impact.
“Can I help you with anything?”
I’m grateful for the subject change. “You could toast the English muffins?”
“Sure thing.” Miles pops two into the toaster and grabs coffee mugs from the cupboard. “Normally I pour myself a bowl of cereal and feel pretty accomplished. I hope you’re not going to all this trouble for me.”
“Oh no, I always make breakfast. It’s my favorite meal. I would eat breakfast for dinner pretty much every day of the week if I could.” I pour the eggs into the frying pan. “Omelets are my number one because you can change it up by adding different things. And of course, waffles are delicious.”
“My stomach approves of all of this.” Miles grabs plates from the cupboard.
When the English muffins are ready, I pass him a slice of cheese for each muffin and fold a piece of ham between the egg before I slide those on as well.
We take our breakfast to the table, and because Prince Francis is clearly a fan of eggs, ham, and cheese, he keeps trying to join us, interrupting every attempt at conversation. Eventually I grab the water gun from the living room and set it beside my plate as a warning.
He plunks his butt down on the floor and glares up at me, obviously not impressed by my lack of sharing.
I cut off a chunk of cheesy egg and ham and drop it on the floor next to my foot. He gobbles it up and rubs himself on my leg, purring and happy again, meowing his gratitude.
“So fickle.” Miles chuckles and swallows his bite of egg sandwich. “He’s basically like a dog, isn’t he?”
“Why, because he’s begging for food?”
He motions to Prince Francis. “It’s exactly what my dog does whenever I have something he wants, which is all the time.”
“Wilfred is adorable,” I tell him. And huge. He’s the size of a small horse, but he has the temperament of a bunny.
“He’s a giant suck. And he really loves bacon. More than anything else. Except maybe the cookies from Woof It Bakery. He becomes a drool fest when I bring those home.”
“Is that like a dog café?”
“Yup, it’s down the block from my place. They have a dog park right next door, and they serve dog treats and coffee and drinks for owners. It’s his favorite place to go,” Miles tells me.
“You said your neighbors are taking care of him right now?”
“Yeah, Mark and Joe. They have a teacup poodle named Herman, and those two are the best of friends. Whenever I take Wilfred for a walk, I usually take Herman too. They’re like two little old men hanging out.” He pulls out his phone and shows me Wilfred’s social media account. Wilfred the Dane and his best friend the teacup poodle have countless pictures together. “He’s got more followers than I do by a significant margin.”
“Maybe if you posted more shirtless photos you’d have a bigger following,” I say, then take a huge bite out of my egg sandwich so I can’t say anything else embarrassing.
“Eh, I’m not really built for shirtless photos.” Miles runs his hand down the front of his shirt.
“Says who?” I arch a brow. I’d happily look at his shirtless chest all day long.
“I’m kind of wiry.”
“Who are you comparing yourself to? And there are lots of women who are fans of lean men. Personally, I’m not all that keen on guys who look like they could be the Hulk’s less green brother.”
“Oh no? You’re more a fan of the spaghetti arms?”
“You don’t have spaghetti arms. And I’ve seen you shirtless now, so I know exactly how nice they look.” I reach across and give his biceps a poke. “Maybe spending all that time around guys who work out for a living has skewed your view of what’s normal.”
“Most hockey players are tanks.” Miles’s lips twist to the side, and he drops his eyes, his cheeks flushing. I like that compliments have the same effect on him as they do on me.
“A tank is necessary when you’re headed for rough terrain, but I prefer sleek.”
“That’s good to know.” Miles grins.
And I realize I’ve spent the last few minutes telling him that I find him attractive.
“Anyway.” I wave a hand around in the air, as if that will erase this conversation. “With the next little while being a bit hectic for you with moving your mom, I wondered if you wanted me to switch you to my monthly plan instead? I know I sent you my schedule of fees in the beginning, but that was for short-term care, and maybe that’s changed a bit? If you want, I can put Prince Francis on a regular rotation, and it’ll be a bit more cost effective for you and your mom.”
It takes him a moment to switch topic gears. “That would be great. I’m not sure whether she’ll be able to bring him with her at all. But I’d like to get her moved and settled before I tackle that problem. And then I’ll have to figure out what we’re going to do with this place.”
“It’s a lot of big decisions. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.” It seems like this place doesn’t hold the same kind of fond memories for Miles that my family home does. Which is maybe part of the reason leaving it behind isn’t something I’ve wanted to entertain much.
He smiles warmly. “You’re already doing more than enough, and making me breakfast definitely isn’t part of the Prince Francis care package.”
“Consider it a bonus service.” I wink and then wish I could
take that part back. My flirt seems to be turned up to full blast around Miles.
“I was wondering if—” Miles’s phone dings, and he glances at the screen. “Oh crap. I didn’t realize what time it was.” He jams the last of his egg sandwich into his mouth and pushes back his chair.
“You need to get to work?”
He nods and raises a hand in front of his face, his words slightly garbled since he’s speaking with a mouth full of food. “I have a meeting in an hour.”
I leave the last two bites of my sandwich and follow him to the front door. His suit jacket hangs on the newel post. He shrugs into it, then slips his feet into his shoes and grabs his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Thanks again, Kitty. I uh . . . I appreciate you. Maybe I can return all the feeding favors by taking you out for dinner one of these days.” He sneezes once, and then again. “Seems like my antihistamines might be wearing off. I’ll touch base later.”
“Sure, sounds good.”
“Great. Have a good day!”
And with that he’s off.
Prince Francis comes trotting into the front foyer. He rubs himself on my leg.
“Do you think when he mentioned dinner he was asking me on a date or just trying to thank me?” Either could be possible. Or maybe I’m reading into things.
Prince Francis meows and flops over on his side, batting at
something under the narrow table to my right. Whatever it is, he can’t seem to reach it, and he keeps meowing, his cries growing louder. I drop to my knees and close one eye, trying to see what it is that has him so riled. It’s a stuffed mouse toy. Possibly the one that was in Miles’s brother’s room.
As soon as I knock it out from under the table Prince Francis takes it in his mouth, meowing excitedly as he trots off to the living room, presumably to play.
With Miles gone and Prince Francis fed and cared for, it’s time to start the rest of my day.