Page 29 of A Love Like Pumpkin Spice
But one thing confuses me.
All these pictures and they’re only of her? She never came across that vain to me. I get she wouldn’t exactly have pictures of her ex-fiancé or sister, but what about the rest of her family?
Of the pictures I have up at my own home, images I took over the years, there’s barely one of me. They’re of my mom and dad, of their pets, of Jensen Ackles, of nature, and of hikes we went on.
When the kitten in my arms whines in protest, I tear myself away from the pictures and quickly leave the living room so that her cries won't wake Nic.
She deserves some proper sleep.
And it’s none of my business, really.
Whatismy business is the little creature right here, who I can already tell will be a menace once she’s older. A cute one, but a menace nonetheless.
Chapter 9
Nic
The thing about having a ghost cat is that you stop questioning every single sound in a house. Creaking from the upper level? I bet Chaos is chasing a shadow. A glass falling in the kitchen? God damn it, Chaos, now I have to clean up glass shards thatyoucan’t hurt yourself on.
But the consistent sound of clanking coming from the kitchen? That doesn’t sound like a ghost cat. At all. I rise from the couch with a startle, my eyes darting around the room for a weapon.
Which I don’t have. There’s an umbrella, a lamp, and the shovel we used to dig Chaos’s grave.
Awoo-woo!
Huh? That’s new.
My eyes dart back to the couch, and all the tension immediately seeps out of my shoulders. Right. Jensen. Henry. Apparently, I did not dream those two up.
“Hey, pretty boy,” I coo with a happy sigh as I sink down next to him again, giggling when he almost climbs into my lap. “Did you keep me company?”
I run my hands over his soft fur, laughing when he tries to lick my face in return. God, he’s adorable. And soft.
When he settles down again, I let my head drop against the couch’s backrest. Maybe I should get myself a dog to heal my heart.
Onthe other hand, I was chosen by the cat distribution system, it appears. But cats can be … spicy. I mean, what if she hates me? She certainly likes to scream a lot, though I’m not sure all of it is in displeasure.
Then again, the same could happen with a dog.
But some unconditional love would be nice. The thought of a living, breathing being doing a happy dance when they see me when I return from a grocery trip? Riveting. I want that.
What I got is a kitten that shits in my hands and screams at me. Well, good things take time. That much even my grandma knew and ingrained in me when she was alive.
God, I miss that woman. I wish I still had her diaries, but my parents ensured none of her belongings made it to me. My sister got all her jewelry, even the simple silver necklace I begged them for. My grandma got it from my grandpa. I've lost count of how many times I've heard her joke that he stole it from a snooty rich woman to gift it to her. She knew it was a bullshit story he told, because never wanted to admit how much he paid for it.
Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure that’s the reason I never received it. I never got her picture albums either. Though I believe that was out of pure spite and pettiness on my parents’ part.
“Hello there, sleeping beauty.” My eyes dart to where the voice came from. Henry leans in the doorway with his shoulder against the frame and his arms crossed in front of his chest. He has the air of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing—and what can I say? It’s working. That stupidly perfect smirk, the rolled-up sleeves, the arms crossed as if he’s completely unaware of how attractive he is. Please. He knows.
“Hey,” I mumble, then I glance around, confused. “Wait. How long was I out?”
“Not that long. Two hours, maybe. I was about to wake you so that your sleep rhythm wouldn't be thrown off too much.” God, how can a man bethatthoughtful and considerate?
“Where’s—”
Just then, the little nameless cat peeks over his shoulder.
“She loves my sweater’s hood,” Henry snickers and walks in.
