Page 28 of Catnapped

I blow out a harsh breath. “Spicier than her? I don’t believe it.”

She nods earnestly. “Oh yes, they get really pissy if you don’t do things their way. Very exacting, and my heavens, the mouths onthem. They’ve said some things that I’ve had to google, and then I wiped my search history from sheer mortification.”

“So I’m like a tortie?” I ask.

“Yes. But you’re also like a Maine Coon,” she says thoughtfully as I turn into the pet store parking lot.

“The gigantic ones you told me about?” I tease.

“Yep. They’re sort of like cat hardware with dog software. Very intelligent, loyal, sort of a nanny cat–they take care of everyone. Nosy, strong, and strong-willed, too.”

“Nowthatsounds more like me.”

She giggles. “But they have cattitude, too. So don’t think you’re off the spicy hook.”

“Any other breeds I need to know about?” I ask.

“All of them. We can have daily lessons.”

I lean toward her, my lips grazing hers. “You teach the daytime lessons. I’ll instruct at night.”

Her eyes widen, and I kiss her, tasting her again, knowing I can’t get enough. Her tongue strokes against mine, and she turns her head so I can go deeper. She grips my shirt, hanging on to me as I lean into her more, taking up her space, filling her senses with how delicious we are like this.

When I finally let her come up for air, her eyes have that sexy dazed look.

“Professional,” she murmurs. “We’re professionals.”

“Absolutely.” I cup her cheek, running my thumb along her soft skin. “You can stay here. I’ll just go in and–”

“No, I’m coming.” She glances at the plate glass windows of the pet store, a cage full of kittens right up front. There’s a giant poster of a puppy in a Santa hat advertising a sale.

“You sure?”

She nods, blinking away the desire. “This is my job. I have to help find Fitzy. I can’t very well do that while sitting in the car.”

“All right.” I get out and go around to her side, helping her up. “But if you start feeling uncomfortable, tell me. I’ll get you out of there. Deal?”

She takes my hand, her palm suddenly clammy. “Deal.”

I hate her discomfort, but I respect her insistence on following through.

“Let’s go.” She steps forward. “I’ll do the talking.”

We enter the shop, the air pleasantly scented with cedar as some puppies yip at each other and roll around in a carpeted crate by the cash register.

“Welcome in,” an older lady calls from the middle aisle where she’s arranging some dog toys in a bin.

“Hi,” May chirps, her voice tight. “We, um, we heard there was a car–well, not a car,” she amends. “We heard there was a license plate… from a car.” She gestures over her shoulder with her thumb. “And we, we wanted–you know–we wanted to know if–”

“I’m sorry.” The lady walks toward us and fidgets with her ear. “My aid went to sleep, but it’s cooking now. What were you saying?”

May lets out a long, flustered breath.

“We’re investigating a missing persons case and have discovered someone stole the license plates from a car in front of this store. Do you have any footage of the incident we could see?”

May squeezes my hand. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Oh, those were my plates.” The woman frowns. “Stole ‘em clean off my Mercedes just a few days ago.”

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