“Yes!” she bit out hotly.
“Nettie, I’m teasing you,” Tate chuckled, maddeningly calm. “The bulb must have gone out because I always leave it on for Mulligan. Walk forward and you’ll see the kitchen light is on too.”
She huffed, muttering under her breath as she stepped cautiously forward. The conversation might’ve been the strangest, most polite argument she’d ever had.
Then her sandal pressed down on something soft, and something nearby hissed. Mulligan.
Nettie shrieked and hopped sideways. For a moment, she was afraid that she’d stepped on him and said as much, but then realized that wasn’t the case.
“What?!”
“Oh my gosh, I stepped on something and it hissed!”
“Did you step on my kitten?” he yelped angrily, in an obvious panic.
“No—but how’s it feel to be teased?” she snapped hotly, shaking her foot out as if it had been contaminated as a streak of something ran away, catching her eye. “And why do you have your shoes everywhere? I thought your sister said you were a neat freak?”
Tate’s laugh was a low, deep rumble that made her stomach clench in a way she absolutely did not want to analyze. It rolled through the phone like a warm wave.
“I am a neat freak when compared to Gina. Her bedroom is a pigsty…”
“Always has been,” Nettie quipped before realizing she might’ve said too much. “Don’t tell her I said that.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” His chuckle deepened. “Do you see Mulligan?”
“I do,” Nettie breathed, her annoyance melting when she spotted a tiny gray fluffball scrambling up the back of his couch before taking a seat, perched on the back of the couch. The kitten glared at her like a miniature dragon, then let out a ferocious hiss that was meant to be fierce.
It wasn’t.
“He’s adorable.”
“He’s a pest,” Tate said softly. But there was something else there—an affection that tugged at her unexpectedly.
“I’ll feed him and leave,” Nettie said firmly, still eyeing the kitten.
“There’s no rush.”
“Tate, I’m not going to snoop around.”
“Fine.”
“Okay.”
“Yep.”
“Yep,” she echoed, exhaling a sharp sigh. “Where are you playing tonight?”
“Toronto. I’m actually about to head down to the locker rooms,” Tate explained. Then, quieter, “You could stay and watch the game—if you wanted to.”
“I appreciate the offer,” she said politely, though her cheeks warmed. “But friends don’t take advantage of other friends.”
“Hmm. Back to the ‘friends-thing,’ huh. Fine. We’ll play by your rules.” His voice dropped into something teasing, threaded with challenge. “Text me when you head out… or a photo of yourself holding Mulligan.”
“I’m not – and we’re barely friends.”
“Up to you.”
“Why do you do this, Tate?” she asked, utterly exasperated.
