Over two feet separate my hands. I don’t want to imagine how gross the imaginary fish between them would be.
Reed nods solemnly. “You caught a sturgeon.”
Even the name sounds slimy.
Jovie is ecstatic, though. “Did you release it?”
“No. I cooked it for her, and we ate it.” Reed keeps his steady gaze on me. We’re apparently in dare mode now.
“Yuck. Was it good?”
“So tasty,” I tell her. “Reed had seconds.”
His mouth curls along the edges, teasing me with a hint of the smile he shone on me a moment ago. Like he knows if he gives me the whole thing again, I’ll be so dazzled I just might pass out.
“Was that at Uncle Reed’s cabin?”
“Yes.” A more hesitant lie, since the last time I went along with comments about his place, I overdid it.
“Isn’t Uncle Reed’s cabin so great?” Jovie snags a handful of sour candies to wash down her slice of pizza. “My friend has a playhouse in her backyard. His cabin is like that, but for grownups.”
“Thanks, nugget,” Reed says dryly.
“It’s so cute and small.”
“Okay. Maybe we should focus on the game.”
“It’s like being in a real-life dollhouse.”
Now I’m the one stupidly smiling at him. I need to see this ramshackle dollhouse. He stares back, refusing to break.
Jovie gasps. “Oh, your cat is so fluffy!”
I follow where she’s looking to find the cat slowly walking through the living room toward us. His gaze is wary like he’s expecting an ambush, but I try not to react too overtly. After our almost-snuggle the night Reed and I watched a movie, he’s made a few aloof overtures. Getting close but never demanding cuddles.
Are cuddle withdrawals a thing? You probably have to have had them first to get the shakes.
He comes close enough to rub once against my leg, arching his back into it before retreating to the living room. He sits and watches us like we’re his lab experiment and he needs to make a note of everything we do.
“That was almost a declaration of love,” Reed says.
“Grumps are subtle that way.”
“Did you name him yet?” Jovie asks.
“Not yet. He’s tough to choose for.” My computer boasts a file full of failed name attempts.
“You could call him Stormy. Because he looks like a cloud.”
“Or Morton,” Reed offers. “Because he’s so salty.”
“I don’t know.” I watch him casually lick a paw as if he’s not putting on a show for us. “Stormy’s not bad. Clouds can look soft and fluffy, but they can be dark and dangerous, too. Cute without being too sweet. That just might work.”
As if he knows we’re talking about him, he sits down, lifts a leg, and starts licking his own butt.
“Gross!” Jovie hides her face in her hands. “I don’t want a cat.”
“Storms can shock you, too,” Reed says.
