Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
He clears his throat. “It’s life. I’ll get it sorted out. Why don’t I introduce you to the resident demon so we can get this wrapped up? I’ve got a game to watch tonight.”
Or maybe he’s a completely heartless jerk. His mom is in the hospital, and he’s more worried about catching some game than he is anything else. And that’s the second time he’s referred to Prince Francis with disdain. It’s clearly not meant as a term of endearment. I’m trying to be understanding, but his impatience and tone aren’t particularly reassuring.
I follow him down the narrow hall, past a set of stairs leading up to what I assume are the bedrooms—they too are half covered in magazines and small boxes. We make a right, and I suck in a gasp as I take in the living room.
“As you can see, I wasn’t lying about the hoarding.” Miles tips his chin toward the very busy living room and stuffs his hand in his pants pocket.
I take in the room, my gaze skipping over the sideboard to the right. It’s full of those porcelain-headed dolls from the early nineteenth century, and their eyes follow me wherever I go. I suppress a shudder as I take a small step forward and absorb the rest of the room. There are two huge floor-to-ceiling shelving units on the other side of the room. They’re filled with knickknacks and framed photos. Between them is a gas fireplace. The mantel houses a plethora of gnomes, spanning every holiday. There are Christmas and Easter gnomes, spring and summer gnomes, one whose hat is decorated in a Canadian flag pattern. There’s even a Halloween gnome.
And then I spot him. The non-gnome amid the gaggle of stuffed, bearded men.
I reach out and grab Miles’s arm. I don’t know why, apart from the fact that I’m irrationally excited over the discovery I’ve made. This is like finding a poster of your favorite band at a garage sale.
In my excitement, I squeeze his forearm and am pleasantly surprised by the firmness. I must enjoy it a few seconds too long, because his gaze shifts to where I’m kneading his arm. I hastily release him. “You didn’t tell me Prince Francis is a sphynx.”
“Huh?” Miles seems confused.
“Prince Francis is a sphynx cat. Hairless.”
“Oh, yeah.” Miles rubs his forearm absently and sniffs.
I tentatively take a step toward Prince Francis, who regards me warily from his perch on top of the mantel. His forehead wrinkles and his nose twitches. “Hello, handsome, aren’t you just as majestic as your name implies,” I croon.
“He looks like a shaved ball sack with eyes,” Miles mutters.
My head whips around. “What a terrible thing to say! He’s beautiful.”
He gives me a disbelieving look. “He’s the cat equivalent of one of those house elf things from Harry Potter.”
Oh, Miles is definitely one of those humans. The animal lover who can only appreciate the furry friend who believes the sun rises and sets on him. I tamp down the urge to give the man a piece of my mind. His mother is in the hospital. People deal with that kind of stress differently. But it doesn’t negate the fact that all animals need love.
When we hear a low thud, we simultaneously look toward the mantel and watch the sunflower gnome tumble to the floor.
Prince Francis licks his paw and yawns loudly.
I give the kitty an unimpressed look. “Prince Francis, that’s not nice.” I take another step forward and notice the floor around the shelving units is littered with casualties. Not all of them have survived their swan dive in one piece.
Prince Francis tips his head and makes a noise, somewhere between a meow and a squeak. I tip my head as well and slip my hand in my pocket. The water gun is still in there.
“Stay very still,” I warn.
“Are you talking to me or the gremlin?” Miles asks.
I frown. I’m losing count of all the insults Miles has lobbed at Prince Francis since we set foot in this house. He’s not a cat person. At all.
“I’m talking to you.”
Prince Francis raises a paw and bats at the gnome next to him. A tap. A test.
“Prince Francis,” I warn.
When he raises his paw again, I withdraw the water gun.
“What the hell?”
Before I can take aim, I’m tackled to the floor.
chapter three
DON’T ATTACK THE
KITTY WHISPERER
Miles
Before I consider my actions, I launch myself at Kitty and take her to the ground. It’s been a hell of a week already and it’s only Tuesday. The last thing I want to explain to my mother—whose mind seems to be failing her at a rate that’s difficult to fathom—is that her precious Prince Francis is no more because the cat lady I hired to babysit him shot him. For knocking a gnome off the fireplace mantel.