She squints, unconvinced. Most people never are.
“I’m here about a feline in need of rescue. One with diabetes.”
Her brows knit. “Cat? Oh, you mean Catalina? Mon couchon. I hope she doesn’t have diabetes.” I detect a slight French accent.
Feline. Cat. What’s the difference?Despite my grumpy internal dialogue, I work hard to stay patient and polite.
“The kitty does,” I clarify.
She nods hesitantly, her face softening. “Ah. I’m Marguerite Dupont. Come with me.”
“Enchanté,” I say … the only French I know. It works. She beams and leads me through a bright kitchen and out the sliding glass door.
It opens onto a manicured lawn and backyard overflowing with showy, lingering, late-summer blooms along the property’s fenced perimeter, though it’s days away from October.
“Ah, ma chère Cat, are you doing okay?” she calls, heading for a tree near her back fence, her gait slow but steady.
“Yes!” a woman’s voice grumbles above us. Smooth and silky with a slight rasp that hits me low in my gut.
I follow Marguerite’s gaze. And then I see her.
Clinging to the trunk of an ornamental evergreen ten feet up is … not what I expected. A prim brunette with chestnut hair pinned tight, her skirt torn, and legs tangled in branches. Pink satin flashes through the rip in her clothes, and I jerk my gaze away, heat spiking in spite of myself.
Now,thisis a cat rescue I can get behind.
But even more than the lovely form of the woman, what knocks the breath out of me isn’t the flash of pink. It’s the sheer determination and courage in her grip. Most people would be sobbing. She’s holding on like hell itself couldn’t pry her loose.
“Oh, wow,” I exclaim, politely averting my eyes. “How’d you get up there?”
She flushes crimson. “I was trying to get the cat, Dumpling, out of the tree to give her insulin before my lunch break ended.”
Marguerite starts, “We’ve got A?—”
“Ambrose Dutch.” I cut her off.
“Okay,” the woman, Catalina, replies, squinting down at me. “I could climb back down if my glasses hadn’t fallen off.”
“Found them.” I stoop, pocketing them from the grass.
Her sigh floats towards us, shaky with relief.
Marguerite clucks her tongue. “Is there any way you can adjust how you’re sitting? Mon couchon, you’re showing everyone your dumplings.”
The elderly woman has a point. Catalina’s ample curves and thick thighs are masterpieces. She’s pinup perfection. My kind of girl. The ideal mixture of buttoned-up proper and hidden naughtiness.
Catalina groans, clinging tighter to the trunk.
I grit my teeth, stepping forward. “Don’t move one inch, Cat. Safety before modesty. Besides, I’m a certified EMT. I’ve seen it all.”Though never so fucking tempting …
Marguerite frets. “If only you weren’t so stubborn growing up, always chasing after your brothers …”
“Gran!” Cat hisses.
Brothers. Stubborn. Interesting. I file it away.
“Hang tight.” I nod at Catalina. “I’ll be right back with a ladder.”
She mutters sassily under her breath, and damn if I don’t grin. Gorgeous, exasperated, refusing to admit she needs me. My kind of challenge.
