Page 83 of Paternal Instincts
Chapter 19
Aslan
Imade it home before Quaid and tossed the ingredients for a chicken salad into a bowl, knowing he would likely balk at the idea of takeout two nights in a row. I made sandwiches with the remaining chicken and plated everything, storing Quaid’s in the fridge and bringing mine into the living room.
With the late-night news channel broadcasting in the background, I ate under the scrutiny of a feline audience, who thought himself all-deserving of human food even though he’d devoured an entire scoop of kibble without coming up for air less than ten minutes ago.
“I fed you, you mooch. Take a hike. This is mine.”
Oscar didn’t move or blink, his gaze intensifying with every bite I took.
“You’re staring. It’s unnerving. Stop it.”
He’d claimed the cushion beside me and sat prim and proper, watching my fork as the grilled chicken traveled from my bowl to my mouth. Back and forth.
“I’m not allowed to share, and you know it. Go play. Or sleep. Or climb a cat tree.”
He placed a gentle paw on my thigh, and I laughed.
“No way, mister. I will not be swayed by cuteness. Remove your paw.”
He did not remove his paw. Instead, he gently patted my leg.
“Goddammit, Oscar, it would mean my balls if I fed you table food. Maybe you’ve adjusted fine without yours, but I’m partial to mine staying exactly where they’re at, thank you very much.”
He purred like a finely tuned car, tracking another bite as it traveled from the bowl to my mouth. The damn cat knew how to dig under my skin. Quaid had said numerous times I was a sucker when it came to Oscar, and he was right.
“You’re going to get me in trouble, aren’t you?”
Knowing he had the upper hand, Oscar flopped onto his side, rolled to his back, and peered upside down with such forlornness you’d think I’d starved him for a week.
“Fuck’s sake.” I glanced at the front window, listening for a car. “Fine. But you better eat it fast.”
I picked a morsel of chicken from my sandwich and licked it clean of mayo, knowing Quaid would have a coronary if I gave the cat dressing of any kind, and placed it on the floor. Oscar immediately pounced on the offering.
“Glutton.”
I picked another piece, shredded it the same, and added it to the mix.
The front door opened at that exact moment, startling me. “Shit. Eat faster,” I hissed at the furball who was taking his sweet-ass time, licking and savoring the offering as though he wanted to make it last.
“Az?”
I glared at the cat as he licked the final piece off the floor. “In the living room.”
Quaid popped his head in a moment later, and Oscar, although finished his tiny nip of chicken, went into excessive cleaning mode like he was in the military and preparing for inspection. He got that way after eating something especially delicious, but was it necessary after having less than a spec of chicken? Apparently so. The bastard.
Quaid noticed—of course, Quaid noticed—and scowled. “Did you feed the cat?”
“No. I mean… yes. In the kitchen. Earlier. When I got home. Cat food. He ate cat food.”
Quaid watched the pesky feline groom himself for another long minute before shifting his gaze to my meal. “You gave him chicken.”
I gasped and clutched my chest. “I would never…” Quaid narrowed his eyes. “I would never lie to you. Fine, it was a teeny-tiny piece, and I regret it. He’s a mooch. He knows how to get under my skin.”
“He’s a cat.”
“Quaid, he’s manipulative and cunning. You should have seen the act he pulled. He’s a sociopath. He ticks all the boxes.”
