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Yeah, I couldn’t have dreamed up a better place to house Bruce overnight. I’m also happy about the row of windows near the ceiling, where plenty of sunlight spills in.
A tiger needs natural light, and lots of it. The lack of it at the refuge bothered me from the start.
His pen there was cave-like and cramped, and they barely gave the poor cat enough caged-in space to step on the grass in his minuscule enclosure outside. It was more mud than anything else.
I worried about muscle atrophy from day one, and that’s not counting the effect on Bruce’s moods or the other poor animals there in similar condition.
Opening the door leading outside, I exit and make sure the latch is secure before walking back to the house.
If the barn is an unexpected fortress, the old farmhouse is almost too normal—and I mean it in the best way.
The place looks picture-perfect by day.
All stark white with a green metal roof, a huge front porch, and gabled dormer windows on the second floor.
Those cute windows are framed with wide shutters, each painted a rustic red. There’s even a tall brick chimney running up one side.
The room I slept in must’ve been a back porch once from the looks of it. A sliding glass door off the dining area is how I’d walked outside, and I use the same door to reenter. Very quietly, because the handsome owner must still be sleeping.
I can’t help smiling because Grady reminds me a little of a big cat himself.
Silly, I know, but the comparison kinda hits you in the face.
He’s big, tough, totally built, and a little scary on the outside...but deep down?
I already sense a walking teddy bear.
That’s where the similarities end, though.
Because if I’m being honest, Bruce doesn’t scare me one bit. And Grady’s intimidating good looks and snarlypants style are only scary because he’s scary hot.
Back in my room, I peel off my boots and socks, but decide lying back down would be useless now that I’m wide awake, so I return to the kitchen instead.
The house is clean enough despite its discord. No cobwebs, dirt, or trash piled up, but it’s a bit cluttered, like things just haven’t been put away for several days.
I smile, remembering how Grady’s skin had a hint of red behind his thick scruff last night when we’d first walked in. I saw it out of the corner of my eye.
He shouldn’t be embarrassed.
I know all about single men raising daughters. It was tough on my dad, and I can only imagine how much harder it would’ve been if he’d had two of me to deal with.
A tiny giggle burbles up my throat, knowing the damage double Willows could’ve done to Dad.
I raised plenty of teenage hell all by my lonesome, thank you very much.
Double trouble would’ve sent him to the nuthouse.
Orderly to a fault—as my father describes me—I walk to the sink that’s piled high with dishes.
Cleaning up a few plates is the least I can do to thank Grady for his hospitality, taking me in after midnight along with—you know—a freaking full-grown tiger.
Dad also says I’m impulsive and too stubborn to know what’s good for me. Maybe so, but he loves me anyway.
I also know that had I called him, told him to send Grady thousands of dollars, Dad would’ve questioned me up and down. But in the end, he’d send the money.
Not because it’s ever happened before, of course, but because he trusts me. I don’t make a habit of running off with exotic beasts without one hell of a good reason.
And thank the holy stars this is a first. I don’t want Dad involved.
Sure, I’ll tell him when it’s all over, someday when he’s knocked back a few glasses of good wine and my life is awesome. He’ll be drunk and laughing so hard he’ll always wonder if I’m making the whole thing up...
But until then?
I shake my head.
Priscilla and Niles Foss were way too interested in my father to begin with. They knew I was the Peter Macklin’s daughter, and if I’d had my head screwed on sooner, I should’ve seen them chasing after the connections I had right from the start.
Even when they started fishing, I’d made it a point to say I don’t have any connections to researchers or wildlife refuges around the world.
My father does. Not me. Being his daughter doesn’t work like that.
A cold chill whips up my spine, making me work faster to chase the bad thoughts away.
I keep finding things to do like a domestic goddess.
Bye-bye, dishwasher. You’re unloaded, reloaded, and started.
Spotless dishes dried and put away—with everything located where I’d expect.
That tells me a woman organized this kitchen once upon a time. Perhaps his wife’s style stuck around, or maybe his mother stepped in?
My heart sinks.
Big Daddy hasn’t had an easy run, that’s for sure.
