Page 16 of Catnapped

The touch lingers on me, just as the kiss does. It’s not until Carson opens my door that I realize I got lost in a daze. One of those that happens when you’re crushing hard on someone. Not that I’ve ever had this happen before. It's how people act in movies and books. I thought it was hyped up, but nope. That shit is real.

“Get it together.” Mousey hops over me and exits the car. I grab Carson's hand, not bothering to respond to Miss Sassypants. She’s gotten me into enough trouble today.

“How are you sure this is the spot?” I ask, trying to focus on something besides thinking about how his mouth felt on mine.

“This is kind of what I do,” he says, his dark eyes glinting as he looks at me so directly my heart trips over itself. That’s the perfect word for him–direct. No wondering what he’s thinking or obsessing over the millions of ways I misread the situation or spoke out of turn. With Carson, I know right where I stand, and God what a relief it is. I feel lighter, like just being with him has stripped away some of the weight I always feel when trying to interact with other people.

“Right,” I say, shaking my head. “Stupid question.” Focus, May.You have a job to do, I remind myself. There’s a cat in danger.

“Girrrrl. That must have been some kiss. Knocked the sense right out of you,” Mousey tosses out as she heads over to the perimeter of the wall.

“There are no stupid questions, May,” Carson says almost gently. “You can ask me anything you want.”

“Anything?” I tease. I’m not ballsy enough to ask some of the questions I want to. Like,Was that kiss good? Did I suck at it? Will you do it again?

“As long as it’s not top secret.”

“Right.” Duh. Now I’m wondering what kind of cool spy stuff he might know. Aliens?

“Only wives get to know those things.” Carson glances over at me. His hand is still holding on to mine, and he winks! Now I wanna ask what the wink means more than the alien stuff, because, of course, aliens are real. I already know that. I mean, I talk to cats.

“It’s about to snow more. Can we flirt later? I hate it when my hair gets wet. I turn into a frizz ball,” Mousey complains.

“I’ll brush you.” I roll my eyes at Mousey. “And we’re not flirting.”

“I’m flirting,” Carson says, not missing a beat.

“Oh.” I lick my lips. “I kind of am. Maybe. I think,” I ramble, not getting any better at this. But when Carson smiles at my answer—or, I suppose, answers—I relax.

“Here.” Carson releases my hand to pull out his phone. “There are tire tracks just off the pavement.” He stops in front of the tracks left in the icy mud. He pulls out a dollar bill, putting it on the ground next to him. I watch with curiosity as he snaps a few pictures with his phone.

“Can you tell something from the tracks?”

"I'll be able to identify the tires and the vehicles they fit, which ones use them most frequently, whether they’re factory. Then we can narrow down the options before we extract the surveillance footage. That will help make it easier to exclude certain vehicles.”

“That’s kinda badass.”

“There’s a gas station about five miles south of here. The city is in the same direction, so I’m guessing they went that way.”

“So we get their surveillance!” I think I’m catching on.

“Yeah.” He gives me another one of his smiles. This particular grin is lopsided, forming small lines beside his eyes. I notice he has different ones.

“Let's go!” I hurry back toward the car. It doesn’t take us long to get to the gas station. As soon as we arrive, Carson receives a response from the person he sent the photos to.

“Wow. Do you have a group of badass friends who can do spy things?”

“Something like that.” He chuckles. I bet he doesn’t think it’s badass. It's normal for him. “I’ll take the lead when we get in there.”

“Right.” I run my hands down my clothes, trying to make sure I don’t have wrinkles and look professional.

“Sitting this one out.” Mousey yawns from the back seat, not moving.

“Do I look okay?” I ask Carson when we get to the door of the gas station. “Professional?”

“You’re fine, babe. It’s going to be a pimple-faced teenage boy.” He rests one hand on my back and uses the other to open the door. When I step inside, my eyes go straight to the boy behind the counter.

“Did your badass friends tell you that?” He nailed the description of the kid behind the counter.

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