Page 19 of Snowed Under

I didn’t know cats could be so obstinate, but this little character really does look peeved off just at my existing. That and giving him crappy cold milk in a gold-rimmed saucer.

“I’ll have you know that’s Royal Doulton,” I tell him. “And you should feel privileged to have your milk in it. I don’t just give my saucer to any old body.” I realize I’m talking to a cat and a flash of me thirty years from now, in this very house with a slew of kitties running around, causes me to grip the handle even tighter. “Shoo.”

If cats could do the Damon Salvatore eyebrow raise, this cat wins first prize. He really isn’t afraid of me.

“Okay, I give up. You came here to torture me, what is it you want? Cause’ I haven’t got anything suitable for a cat to eat.” I contemplate trying cornflakes, but that wouldn’t be very neighborly of me, even if it is my house, knowingly giving him something I’m certain he shouldn’t be eating.

He raises his butt off the ground and moves his little legs closer to me.Uh, oh.I imagine the 911 call right now. “Excuse me officer, but this cat broke into my house and just attacked me out of nowhere, and now he’s trying to eat my arm…”

It’s because I haven’t had my coffee yet, that’s what it is. I’m delusional before the caffeine hits.

As politely as I can, I try to shoo him back with the broom, but like Clint Eastwood in a Fistful of Dollars, the damn cat is not deterred. Yes, I’m intimidated by a freaking animal!

“Shoo!” I say again, but his eyes narrow and before I can do anything, it leans back on its haunches and suddenly leaps up onto the counter, making me shriek as I run out the back door and slam it behind me.

I’m too scared to glance back to see if the damned thing made it out, and like a horror film, he’s right behind me, waiting to pounce… but when I peek back through the glass with my hands, he’s up on the counter, laying in the morning sun that streams through the blinds. He watches me like I’m a complete idiot, and I feel that right down to my toes.

I straighten my back, ignore the thudding of my beating heart, and begin to march back in to show him who’s boss when I hear, “Morning, Ainsley.”

I stare at the cat before turning to the voice. It’s as if the fur ball on wheels knows my sudden discomfort and dread of being caught outside in my robe by my neighbor, and is secretly satisfied. I know that voice. I know that tone. And I know the way he says my name.

And no, for the record, I did not plan on running into Cole wearing pumpkin pajamas, wooly socks pulled up over the top, along with oversized novelty slippers and my matching pumpkin colored robe. Not to mention, my hair is slung in a knot on the top of my head containing my curls from last night, but now Leo Sayer would be rattled by the frizz. It’s also slipped sideways in a way that was fashionable in the 1980s when leg warmers were a thing. I should be grateful that I didn’t have my sleep mask on, usually, it’s stuck to the top of my head. I reach for my forehead and realize that my nightmare is now complete. My pumpkin sleep maskissitting on my forehead, completing the look.

I slowly turn, and it feels like it takes eons to do that simple little act. And there he is, over the timber fence line between us.

I clear my throat. “Hello, Cole.”

He’s looking scrumdidilly-dumptuous, of course, at stupid o’clock in the morning, and he’s already dressed for work, even though it’s barely light out.

“You okay?”

Why, do I not look okay? And why is he out in the garden at this time of the morning?

It’s then I realize he has a hose in his hand. Is he watering a… veggie patch?

“Um, yes, I just had a fright, actually.”

If he notices I’m wearing weird stuff to bed, he doesn’t show it, but his brow furrows. “What was it?”

“A cat,” I say, looking back over to my back window. The critter has now rolled onto his back, paws in the air like he’s in the south of France, not my kitchen bench. “It hissed at me and then jumped up on my bench, and I ran away like the giant child I am.”

“Oh, no.” He turns the hose off. “Is it ginger and scowls, as if you trod on his ancestors’ graves and did a rain dance on them?”

I nod slowly.

“That’s just Fudge,” he says like that’s meant to mean something to me, then adds, “He’s my cat.”

I stare at him for a few moments while I comprehend his words. “You have a cat?”

“Yep.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised. I mean, people have cats all the time. But something about Cole being a cat dad is…hot.

“Oh.”

“You’re not allergic, are you?”

“Uh, no.” I try to snatch my eyepatch off, but he’s watching, so it just ends up higher on top of my bun.Flattering, Ainsley. Way to go.“He just startled me.”

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