“Right.” He turns to Chrissy. “Tell me what I need to do.”
She grins. “I’ll grab the paperwork.”
By the time the forms are done, Chloe has already named the pair Olive and Pear.
Why those names?
I’m not entirely sure.
But she’s four, so that’s reason enough, I suppose.
The kittens are eight weeks old, and can go home tonight, so we corral them into carriers (Chloe chooses pink ones, of course) and I go into the storeroom to snag the supplies Chrissy provides every adoption—litter, food, bowls, beds, toys.
Basically, a kitten starter kit.
Then we’re heading out, Rhodes holding both carriers as Chloe skips along beside him. The sight of him is so absurdly sweet that my chest aches a little.
And freaking hot too, his muscles bulging, his aggrieved expression not doing much to hide the soft heart within, the way his jeans stretch tight over?—
I freeze.
Where hadthatcome from?
Before I can do more than shove the thought away, Chloe slips her hand into mine. “You think the kitties will like our house?”
I stroke back her hair. “I think they’ll love it.”
“Do you think they’ll sleep in my room?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you think Daddy will let them sleep inhisroom?”
I glance up.
Rhodes is holding the door open with his back, clearly listening even though he pretends not to be.
“I think,” I say carefully, “your dad might be too much of a softie to stop them.”
Chloe giggles.
Rhodes mutters, “I heard that.”
I smile and wink at him as I step out into the cool evening air. It’s a beautiful night, the stars gleaming overhead, the moon full and bright. Rhodes walks toward his SUV, the kitties protesting softly as he places them in the backseat and carefully buckles them in.
Chloe is still talking excitedly as she climbs into her car seat.
I reach over to buckle her in?—
Then freeze again.
Because Rhodes is watching us.
No, he’s watchingme.
And—
My pulse speeds, my throat goes tight, my heart…
