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Well, perhaps notthishouse. It was far too big for one person, and a part of me was wishing that I’d booked a cottage instead, but the view was too good to pass up.
Hmm.
Maybe I’d go into Windermere this afternoon when I was done writing and just happen to stop and look in the window of an estate agent.
For research purposes, of course.
I sighed almost happily. It was just a dream, but it was a nice one to have. The likelihood of me actually following through was next to nothing, but it was always nice to imagine what could be.
I finished my tea and got back up to feed Winston. I had to go out this afternoon anyway as I was in dire need of food for both of us, so that was the excuse I was using to visit the actual village.
“Winston, food!” I called out, giving the kibble bag a shake for good measure. I slid a pouch of meat into a clean bowl and topped it off with some biscuits. “Winston!”
Nothing.
Oh, no.
Not again.
Healwayscame for food—it was the only consistent thing about him. Other than how often he escaped, of course, and this was usually how I found that out.
When I did the magic bag shake and he didn’t show up.
That cat was going to be the death of me. Did I have to stand on a balcony and call for him like Juliet did for Romeo? What was it going to take to keep that little sod inside?
“Winstoooon,” I sang, walking through the house. “Food! Come on, food!”
I was in so much trouble.
I rushed through the house, checking every possible space he could be in. Under beds and sofas, on top of wardrobes and shelving units, inside the bathtubs and shower units—everywhere you could think of, I looked. I even looked inside everything that there was no chance he could get into, and I probably looked like an insane person opening and closing every drawer in the place.
Like he could open drawers.
He could get into them through the tiniest sliver of a gap, but he couldn’t open them.
Not that I knew of.
No.
That was it.
He wasn’t here.
I was going to have to get dressed and go on yet another search for the little bastard.
Fantastic.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MAX
How The Worm Turns
Icradled my cup of tea on the sofa, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, and looked out of the window at the garden.
It was shaping up to be a beautiful day, and I had nothing to do except help Grandma tend to the goats. They needed cleaning out and the farmhand we employed was off gallivanting in Spain this week, so it was down to me.
I didn’t mind. It was hard work, but it wasn’t difficult. The goats would all be sent outside to a secure field so they wouldn’t be munching on my shorts for once which meant I would have the entire barn to get it done.
