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CHAPTER 1
Trina
There’s a cat in my living room.
Pressing the heels of my palms to my eyes doesn’t make the furry little creature disappear, even when the last remnants of sleep dissipate from my mind, which means… Yep. There’s definitely a cat in the living room.
“Why is there a cat in the living room?”
My mother looks up from the newspaper stretched over the dining room table in our temporary open-plan rental home, a cup of coffee held aloft in her hand. Her pixie-cut hair is mostly silver, sticking up in all directions in her particular brand of just-got-out-of-bed chic. Purple-rimmed reading glasses are perched on the tip of her nose, giving her owl-like eyes when she meets my gaze. My mother blinks, then tilts her head, brows tugging together. Then, she smiles. “Oh, you mean Mr. Fuzzles?”
Patience, thy name is Trina. “Yes, Mom, Mr. Fuzzles. Why is he in the house?”
“He showed up last night when you were out.” She waves a hand, eyes returning to the newspaper. “I’m bringing him to the vet this morning.”
I pause, waiting for her to go on. When she doesn’t, I clear my throat. “And after the vet? Where are you taking him then?”
Small, soft arms wrap around my waist. “Can we keep him? Please, Mom?” Toby, my nine-year-old, looks up at me with wide, hazel eyes. “He’s too skinny. He was meowing so loud at the back door and Nana said we could feed him. So we brought him in and gave him tuna. He ate it all. The whole can. And a lot of water too. So we went to the store and got cat food and he ate all of that too. Then he wouldn’t leave. I think he likes us.”
I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. “You fed him, Toby, so of course he likes you. He’s a cat.” My hand slides over the silk of my son’s hair as he squeezes my waist again, blinking those big, green-brown eyes at me. I can already feel my conviction slipping, so I glance at the cat again.
More of a kitten, really. He’s in a laundry basket with an old towel on the bottom, curled up in a teeny tiny ball, little eyes closed as his paws knead a fold in the fabric. Black fur covers most of his body, apart from the tips of his paws and a diamond-shaped patch on his forehead. He really is quite skinny.
Toby leans his head against my arm. “Please, Mom? Me and Katie will take care of him.”
“Katie and I,” I correct absentmindedly, hand still sifting through Toby’s hair. I glance at my mother, who slurps her coffee. My eyes narrow. “Did you tell the kids they could keep the cat?”
“Hmm?” My mother looks up from the paper, as if she has no idea what I’m talking about. As if we haven’t been discussing the cat for the past five minutes.
I lower my chin. “Mom.”
“Why don’t you get some coffee, Katrina? There’s a full pot. And tell me about your evening! You didn’t get home until nearly midnight. I’m guessing you had fun?”
“It was okay,” I say, admitting defeat about the cat. I extricate myself from Toby’s hold and head for the coffee machine. I’ll lay down the law after I’ve gotten some caffeine in me, when the last remnants of the three or four drinks I had last night are cleared from my body. I should have known better than to stay out late.
“I noticed you took a cab home,” my mother says, eyes still on the newspaper as I take a seat across from her. “I’ll need the car to take Mr. Fuzzles to the vet.”
“I had a couple of drinks last night,” I explain. “Didn’t feel safe to drive. I’ll go grab the car as soon as I’m dressed.”
Mom nods just as my seven-year-old, Katie, comes barreling into the room. She sprints toward me, then skids to a stop on the hardwood floors, hands clasped at her heart. “Can we keep him? Please, Mom? Please?” She blinks at me, her eyes greener than Toby’s but no less potent. “I’ll feed Mr. Fuzzles every day and take him out for walks.”
“Cats don’t go out for walks, Katie.” Toby rolls his eyes. “You’ll have to scoop his litter box. That’s where he’ll pee and poo.”
A tiny wrinkle appears in my daughter’s nose, but she smooths it out a second later. “I’ll scoop his litter box,” Katie says solemnly, as if she’s vowing to throw herself on a sword, lashes still batting at me. “Please, Mom?”
The last thing I need right now is a new cat. My mother and I just moved to Heart’s Cove a few weeks ago, and I’m in the midst of starting my life over after finding out my perfect husband wasn’t so perfect after all. A pet just screams more bills and responsibilities.
For a woman with an impending divorce, no job, and a dire need for a bit of stability, bills and responsibilities are already plentiful. I don’t want to add any more.
“Mr. Fuzzles might have an owner already,” I say, stalling for time.
“No collar,” my mother helpfully cuts in. “But we’ll check for a microchip when we take him to the vet.”
My phone dings. Shamelessly avoiding my kids’ hopeful stares, I glance at the screen and, reading the email notification on it, surprisingly, feel…nothing. It’s from my lawyer. Looks like my divorce is no longer impending. Kevin finally signed the papers.
I should feel heartbroken, right? Or at least relieved? I should feel…something.
All I feel right now is annoyance about the damn cat. What the hell is that about?
