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“Oh, right. I was just about to eat some dinner. Nothing fancy, just a tuna casserole. Can I dish you up some?”
He pretended to think about it, even as he hoped his stomach didn’t gurgle at the delectable aroma coming from the kitchen. “I guess I could eat. If you can spare it.”
“Take a seat on the couch,” she said and went to the small, cavernous area beyond the front room that seemed to be the kitchen and pulled a bowl from the cupboard. “Sorry. I don’t have a kitchen table or chairs yet, so the couch and the recliner will have to do. But fair warning on the recliner, it tends to lean to the left, so sit in that at your own risk.”
When she returned with two bowls filled with the savory casserole, he had his laptop open and resting on his lap. He adjusted his seat, trying to get comfortable. “What is this thing made of? Balled-up coat hangers? Something’s poking me in my ass.”
“It came with the place. And like the kitchen table and chairs and the car—”
“I know, I know. It will have to do,” he said, finishing her sentence. “As long as that’s not something alive taking a bite out of me, it will be fine.”
She handed him his bowl and sat on the other end of the couch.
His gaze swept around the room, taking in an old-model sewing machine sitting precariously on a narrow desk in the corner, a decrepit TV stand in the front of the room with an old television plonked on top, and the coffee table that had cigarette burns and scratches across its surface and two utility bills propped under one leg to keep it balanced.
As for the couch he was sitting on, he didn’t even want to know what it looked like under the blue sheet she’d tucked around it.
“So did you just come over to check out my digs, or was there something you wanted to show me?” she prodded as she blew on then took a bite of the casserole.
“Do you know anything about—” Reynolds stopped talking mid-sentence as something slipped past his right shoulder and made its way across the back of the couch.
He wasn’t the squeamish sort ordinarily, but the possibility that the world’s biggest cockroach or maybe even a rat was crawling around behind him had his heart stopping.
“Waverley,” Reynolds said, his voice calm but strained. “Please tell me that is not a giant rat or some other vermin walking behind me.”
“It’s just Mouse. He won’t hurt you.”
Mouse? He jumped to his feet, barely catching his laptop with his free hand, and whirled around so quickly that the rodent had to scramble to keep its footing as it nearly fell off the couch.
Waverley’s laughter filled the room. “Mouse is my new cat, Reynolds. I promise he won’t bite.” She seemed to rethink that. “And if he does, he had a rabies shot on Tuesday and is on a deworming regiment.”
“Where the hell did you find a cat? Did it come with the place, too?”
“Technically he found me when I came home one night after looking for Oscar. One look at that little face and I couldn’t dream of not taking him in. He was all alone.”
She stared lovingly at the mangy cat that appeared more rat than feline.
“He looks terrible,” Reynolds said, continuing to eye the creature.
“The vet said that as his diet improves the bald batches will grow in nicely,” she said defensively.
“And that gaunt look?”
“Again, he just needs regular food and nutrition. And he’s still just a baby. The vet estimates he’s probably around five months old.”
Mouse moved to her lap and curled up on it. With one hand holding her bowl, she rubbed a finger under his jaw, earning an immediate purr of satisfaction.
“I just hope you gave him a good bath so he didn’t infect the place with some disease.”
“Of course I did.”
More cautiously, while casting a wary look to Mouse, Reynolds returned to the couch.
“Look at the big, scary man who’s afraid of a tiny little cat,” she said in a teasing tone before laughing.
He glared at her.
“Okay. Sorry.” Only, she didn’t sound at all contrite. “What were you saying?”
