Page 7 of Pack Scratch Fever
I shift on my feet, itching to leave. “What question?”
“Did you feed her?”
“Oh, yeah. We had some canned chicken. I gave her some of that.”
“No milk though, hopefully?” she asks.
I shake my head.
She lets out a sigh of relief, and a smile pulls at her lips. “Oh, good,” she says. “Cow milk is horrible for them.”
I nod, doing my best to ignore the thudding in my chest at her smile.
“Well, thanks for taking her.” I shrug. “Sorry if I was rude.”
She shakes her head. “You wouldn’t be the first,” she murmurs, and I cock my head
People are rude to her?Why?
You were rude just a few seconds ago, asshole,I think to myself.
“Also, I appreciate you bringing her here,” she adds. “Some people don’t bother. You took the extra step to make sure she was taken care of.”
I don’t bother correcting her. I didn’t do it for the kitten; I did it for me, so it wouldn’t tear up my backyard and ruin my herb garden.
She seems to read my mind. “Some people just dump cats somewhere or chase them away. You made the effort to feed her and bring her somewhere safe.”
I nod, unable to argue with the softness that returns to her features.
When she trains her eyes on me likethat, it’s worth her thinking I did this out of the goodness of my heart.
“Also, maybe don’t give her so much catnip next time,” she chides, “and she won’t be all over you.”
I furrow my brow. “I didn’t give her catnip.”
She cocks her head curiously, and her lemony mint scent blooms in the air. “Really?”
“Ah, I grow herbs in my backyard,” I shrug. “But not catnip.”
She bites her lip, and her eyes sparkle with delight, as if she’s in on a secret. “What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” she shrugs, even though she looks like she wants to burst into laughter. “So, not a cat person, huh?”
The kitten looks at me and meows, giving a cry of desperation I choose to ignore.
“No. Not really a pet person. Anyway, thanks for the help.” I turn to head out, but she sighs again.
“That’s a shame,” she murmurs. “Especially because I doubt this kitten is the only one.”
I turn back to face her, frozen in the doorway. “What?”
“Well fed, healthy, and probably eight or so weeks,” she says knowingly, and my gut churns. “And you have an herb garden, right? Mama cat is probably around somewhere with more of them.”
My jaw ticks. “No.”
“Uh, yes. Sorry, I don’t control the cat distribution system.” She makes a face, looking at me as if I’m a child.
My irritation grows. “So you’re saying there are probably more cats in my backyard?”
