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Or what happens to me when we do.
I won’t risk engaging his temper by asking.
We haven’t revisited the whole caveman “you will be my wife” statement he made last night. Let’s hope it was just a testosterone-fueled threat, born out of anger from me refusing to play the role of his fake fiancée.
The gift of a kitten tells me he’s not that mad about me refusing him.
Right?
Or… Was this a warning gift—like the de-poisoned flowers in the hallway—a pet given to show me that my permanence in his life is just beginning?
If he has decided to make me his wife, I have to find a way out of here, don’t I? Make an escape plan. The cat sleeps peacefully in my lap.
I might have to make escape plans for two.
She’s so tiny I’m sure I’d have an easy time hiding her. We sit in silence for a few moments. I’m surprised when he starts talking again, opening up about a memory.
He even looks my way, holding my gaze as he speaks. “Every few years we have a cat problem. A few too many get on the island, start procreating, and things quickly get out of control.”
“How do cats get on an island?” I ask. “I can’t imagine them swimming over.”
“Probably cat lovers like you,” he says, watching me obsess over the kitten.
I nod. “Fair enough.”
“I remember one year when I was a kid, there were cats everywhere. We couldn’t keep them out of the buildings. After that we employed some vets to come spay and neuter them, then move the majority of the cats off the island for adoption. Just after we arrived, they told me they’re in the process of vetting a team to come in and take care of this again.”
“Vetting the vets.” I giggle.
He looks my way, almost smiling, but the half grin quickly falls away.
“Where did they find her?” I ask.
He glances over at the cat, a look of disdain on his handsome face. “She was walking through one of the trash bins at the rear of the property.”
“Funny, this place is so beautiful I can’t picture trash bins on the island.” I laugh. “I guess even the Beautiful Bachmans make messes.”
“You have no idea,” he says, with a heavy tone.
I stroke the kitty’s soft fur. “Was she alone?”
“They almost missed her because she was so tiny. She climbed out of a paper bowl. They cleaned her up and had her checked out. She’s healthy.” I detect a hint of empathy in his voice. “But yes, she was found alone.”
A little pang tears through my chest, thinking of this itty-bitty baby fending for herself. “They think her mother left her?”
“Yes,” he says. “And she hasn’t been named yet either.”
“Well, we should name her. Everyone deserves to have a name of their own.”
“You should name her.” He shakes his head. “I don’t do pets.”
“What a grump,” I say. “Who doesn’t like a nice furry friend to come home to after a long day?”
“Me.”
I lift the kitten up, giving him a better view of her pretty green eyes, her fuzzy little split-fur face.
“Give her a good look and tell me you don’t like her,” I say.
