Page 67 of Relationship Goals

I bite back a laugh at a peeling white-and-black label affixed to it that reads,Kittens Only.

“We’re ready for you, little cat.” Luke’s so sure of himself, his voice no longer the gruff rasp he usually affects but a low, gentle rumble. He glances down at me. “You ready?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, I’m going to scruff him. It’s going to look bad, but at his size, it’s totally fine. He’s going to react to your energy, so can you be calm?”

I’m nervous in spite of myself, but I nod fervently. “I can.”

“Good. All right, hand him over to me, keep a firm hold, and I’ll get him started.”

“Got it. Just tell me how to help.”

“I’m going to scruff him,” he repeats in that same low, soothing voice that sends a shiver down my spine.

Bizarre reaction, considering I apparently have fleas crawling on me, but that’s fine and normal and fine and great.

“Okay,” I squeak, and he narrows his eyes at me.

“You don’t have to stay if you’re not an animal person. Or if bugs bother you,” he adds after a moment.

“I’m good, it wasn’t—um, it was nothing.” Heat crawls up my chest and cheeks, and he gives me a strange look while I hold out the hissing lump of knives.

“You’re doing great, princess, good job,” he says in that same, delicious voice—sweet and smooth like salted caramel.

Princess. Whew. It’s a good thing my hands are full of cat, because I might fan myself if they weren’t, and that would be very embarrassing.

“That’s right, princess,” Luke continues, his huge hand disappearing into the folds of the canvas fabric around the cat.

“Princess,” I repeat, my stomach flipping in delight. “It’s a little early for pet names, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he says easily, “but she’s not a boy, after all. Definitely a little girl. We’ll call her Princess until the shelter or her new owner names her.”

Oh. Fuck me. He’s talking about the kitten.

I’m not princess—the cat is.

For some reason, this strikes me as hilarious, and a giggle bubbles out of my mouth before I can clamp down on it.

“There’s a metal comb and a roll of paper towels there, isn’t there, Princess?”

He’s addressing the cat, and I’m so embarrassed about thinking he was calling me princess that I can’t decide if I want to disappear or die laughing or some combination thereof.

“So if you could grab that and comb her out while I hold her, that would be great, Abigail.”

I decide right then and there that the only name I need him to call me is my own.

It’s never sounded as good on anyone else’s tongue.

Chapter Seventeen

Luke

Abigail’s a naturalat this. She’s gentle with the little kitten, who turns out to have one of the prettiest fluffy gray coats I’ve seen in a long time. Seal point with slight tabby markings and big blue eyes.

“She’s covered in them, the poor thing.” Abigail coos at the tiny creature, who’s given up on fighting, limp and compliant in my hands.

“They’ll die as the soap gets them,” I tell her confidently, but secretly, I worry for the little creature. Fleas, especially on one so small, can make a kitten dangerously anemic.

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