Page 45 of The Holiday Clause
He shrugged. “He looks like a wet rat.”
She clicked her disapproval and spoke to the cat in motherese, “I won’t let him name you after a rodent.” It wasa tradition at The Haven to name all the rescues after holiday words. That was why they had Figgy, Nog, Snowball, Garland, Spruce, and Sugarplum. “You look like a Tinsel to me.”
“You can’t call him that. He needs a manly name, or the others will bully him. He’s already got a size disadvantage.”
The kitten was definitely the runt of the litter. “There weren’t any others?”
“Nope. Found him shivering under the porch.”
“Thank goodness you heard him.” She gave the kitten a nuzzle and then drew back. “First things first, you need a bath.” She looked over at Greyson. “You probably want to throw that shirt in the wash. Chances are he has fleas.”
She carried the cat to the kitchen and got to work. First, she set out a towel, soft washcloth, mild, unscented baby shampoo, and a small plastic cup, then she filled the basin of the sink with an inch of warm water.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Greyson stripping out of his shirt and tossing it into the wash closet down the hall. Her lips parted as he reached for the laundry detergent, thick ropes of muscle twisting along his arms as sinew stretched and rippled down his back with every turn. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him.
Her stomach dropped as he bent over. The curve of his spine and those exposed muscles were not something the average man could claim. She swallowed and removed her jacket, suddenly warm.
Greyson turned—caught her staring—and she dropped her attention back to Tinsel.
“Well,” she said, forgetting for a moment what she was supposed to be doing. “How about some Enya to set the vibe. This is your first spa visit, after all.”
She tapped her phone and pulled up one of the playlists she used at The Haven for various treatments. Enya’s crooning voicepaired perfectly with the trickling water. Tinsel sidestepped her fingers and stumbled along the counter, chirping away like a little cricket.
“What did he put in that milk? You’re walking like you’re drunk.”
“He’s probably feral,” Greyson said, sneaking up behind her.
Her spine stiffened when his bare arm reached past her to scratch the kitten, and she realized he hadn’t put on a fresh shirt.
“Possibly.” She kept her eyes on Tinsel. “Kittens need socializing until about seven weeks. He looks younger than that. The fact that you found him alone is a little concerning.”
“Nah, Rat’s tough. He’ll be just fine once he gets a good night’s sleep and a good meal in him.”
“His name is Tinsel.” She shut off the faucet and prepped her washcloth with some shampoo, then sloshed it around the warm water. “He doesn’t look like any of ours, which means there’s another female out there needing to get spayed.”
“You’re dunking him in there? I thought cats don’t like water.”
“Older ones don’t. It depends on how they’re brought up. But, no, he’s too young for a full bath.” She cradled Tinsel to her chest, holding him close so he felt safe and secure. “You’re okay, baby.” Using her wet fingers, she gently stroked between his ears. His feather-like fur was fine enough that he was wet in only a few soft pets.
“I don’t think he likes that.”
The kitten chirped and squawked, its little needle claws pawing at her as he desperately sought escape. “Squirt a dab of shampoo in my hand.” She held out her palm and Greyson gave the bottle a squeeze. Using the sink water, she formed a lather and stroked Tinsel, making sure to get all his hidden crevices.
“He hates it.” Greyson frowned, hovering every step of the way.
Wren was careful to avoid the kitten’s ears, eyes, and mouth. Once he was covered in suds, she held him over the sink and used the cup to rinse him off gently, shielding his face and making sure the water was warm, but he cried the entire time.
As soon as the water rinsed clear, she pulled him back to her chest. “Hand me the towel.”
Greyson was already unfolding it. She swaddled Tinsel up like the world’s smallest burrito, and he finally stopped crying. A second later, his eyes were closed, and his motor was softly purring again.
“I think we tired him out.”
Greyson stepped closer to peek at the little bundle. “I still think he looks like a rat.”
“He’ll be cuter when he dries.” She tipped her chin toward her basket on the counter. “There’s a heating pad in there. Can you set it up in his box?”
While Greyson prepared the kitty condo, she rocked and hummed softly to Enya. Once he was done, she laid Tinsel inside and nestled a fresh towel around him to keep him warm. He was out cold.
