“Yeah. I got her a couple weeks ago.”
Fur Ball circles in Wyatt’s lap before resting back down once more.
“My cheeks hurt,” Wyatt says, and his grin is wider than any I’ve seen before.
I peer at Maggie—is she seeing this? But her smile might be the only one bigger than her nephew’s. There are tears in her eyes, and she’s nibbling on her bottom lip.
“You should pet her,” I say. “She’s so soft.”
Maggie strokes two fingers down the littlekitten’s back. “I can’t believe you got a cat,” she says, but there’s no contempt in her tone.
“A friend suggested it,” I say, not yet willing to admit that her love for felines tipped the scale for me.
“What’s her name?” Wyatt says, his head bent, trying to make himself eye to eye with the cat in his lap.
I lift my brows. “Name. Um, you know, I haven’t thought of one yet.”
“You haven’t named her?” Maggie says, looking up from the kitten to me.
“What do you call her?” Wyatt asks.
“Ah. Fur Ball.” I shrug.
Wyatt picks her up to look her in the eyes. He touches his nose to hers before standing.
“Whoa. Careful, bud,” Maggie says. She holds out her hands and Wyatt sets the cat in her hold. “Where are you going?”
“Just the floor. I want to see if she’ll follow my finger like Abby’s cat.”
“She doesn’t do a whole lot other than sleep,” I tell him.
Maggie holds the kitten up to her cheek, and Fur Ball rubs her face against Maggie’s. “Here you go, little kitty.”
Wyatt lies down on his stomach and waits for Fur Ball to join him. “You have to name her? She can’t go her whole life being called Fur Ball?”
I clear my throat. My intentions with this kitten were not completely pure. While I truly like her, I adopted her, thinking about Maggie meeting her. So, a name never crossed my mind. “I think you need to name her.”
Wyatt’s head perks up. “Me?”
Maggie’s brow knits, but she’s grinning. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” I say, more sure than ever. “Wyatt, this is animportant job. You are just the man for it. I need you to name this kitten.”
He looks at Fur Ball seriously, with intent. “Anything?”
“Anything you want,” I tell him.
“Oh goodness,” Maggie mutters.
Wyatt thinks for only a minute before sitting up on his backside and pulling in a long, sharp breath. He scoops Fur Ball into his lap, peering down at her. “I’ve got it.”
Maggie and I wait—by her tight jaw, she’s anxious for whatever he’s come up with.
Wyatt stares at my little cat, and as serious as if he were the priest and Fur Ball were a child on her baptism day, he says, “Nanners.”
My brow knits. “Did you say?—”
“Nanners,” he repeats.
