Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
On Isla’s other side, Alfred the ancient Shih Tzu is snoring so loud I can feel the vibrations in the mattress. Every so often, his legs spasm like he’s running from his own dreams. The little guy is pressed up tight to Isla’s bare back, the world’s most dedicated personal heater.
I’m so comfortable, I don’t want to move, but I must. Our first “official” date was two weeks ago, and I haven’t spent another night at my apartment since. In fact, I’ve pretty much moved in here. I started stopping by my apartment every night to grab clean clothes for the next day. Then I started doing my laundry here, so my clothes just stayed. Along with the rest of my stuff. Isla doesn’t seem to mind, and I’ve never been happier.
My family is chomping at the bit to meet my girl, but I’ve been holding them off, not wanting to do anything to scare off my skittish, gorgeous girl.
I breathe in, forcing myself to stay still. I could die here, honestly. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go. The pressure of Oreo on my face, the sweat cooling on my chest, Isla’s hand splayed open, palm hot and damp over my ribcage. For a second, I’m aware of how surreal this all is.
I close my eyes and let the morning seep in. The world is silent except for the snuffling of Alfred and the goddamn chainsaw of Oreo’s purr. The heat of Isla’s skin is a brand. Her leg moves in her sleep, brushing my cock. I hiss, and Oreo huffs, annoyed by my insubordination.
I twist my head, get a clear look at her. Isla’s always intimidating when she’s awake, but asleep, she’s soft. Her lips are slightly parted, and there’s a tiny freckle on her lower lip that I like to run my tongue over. Her brow is furrowed like she’s fighting someone in her dreams. Even unconscious, she’s intense as hell.
I could stay like this forever, but my left arm is numb, and I’m going to piss myself if I don’t get up. Gently, I try to dislodge Oreo, but he’s a heavy little shit. I manage to get a hand under his belly and ease him off my head, laying him next to Isla’s shoulder, where he immediately starts to knead her upper arm. She doesn’t stir. For someone so intense, she sleeps like the dead.
Slowly, I untangle myself from Isla’s grip. Her hand drags across my abdomen as I roll out of bed, and her fingertips leave pink trails on my skin. I almost lose the battle when she sighs and snuggles deeper into the mattress, hair tangling around her face, but I force myself upright.
Alfred is instantly awake, waddling across the sheets with a yawn that could split his tiny head in half. He eyes me with suspicion, like he’s not convinced I’m worthy of taking care of his mom. He jumps off the bed with a thump and trots to the door, glancing back over his shoulder. Oreo, meanwhile, has repositioned himself on Isla’s chest, head pressed under her chin. He flicks his tail at me, dismissing me from his service.
I watch Isla for another moment. I want to memorize this. The way she sleeps, all sprawled out, oblivious to the world. The way she trusts me enough to let me see her like this.
I open the bedroom door and step into the hallway. That gets Oreo’s attention. He jumps off the bed and follows Alfred, who’s hot on my heels. Isla likes to sleep until the absolute last minute, and I’m an early riser, so I took charge of breakfast duty.
I pause for a second, letting it all sink in. The apartment is quiet, just the soft patter of Alfred’s paws and Oreo’s indignant meow as he demands to be fed. I feel right at home. Like I’ve been adopted into a pack, and the pack expects me to pull my weight.
I shoot a glance back at the closed bedroom door, a stupid grin spreading over my face.
The kitchen is a shrine to efficiency—everything is labeled, from the flour canister to the “Breakfast of Champions” container, which is apparently Alfred’s preferred kibble. Alfred’s bowl sits on a rubber mat shaped like a cartoon bone, and there’s a sticky note on the fridge that reads: “DO NOT OVERFEED. HE WILL BARF.” I almost laugh out loud.
I open the fridge and find the tiny Tupperware of boiled chicken for Alfred’s sensitive stomach, and next to it, the silver cans of wet cat food with the faces of judging, superior-looking felines on the label. Oreo immediately hops onto the counter and sits, tail curling around his feet, eyes fixed on me with impatience.
I get Alfred’s breakfast ready first, since the cat can’t actually starve to death in the thirty seconds it takes me to scoop out a little chicken and mix it with the dry food. Alfred sits perfectly, staring at the bowl, vibrating with excitement but not making a sound. The minute I put it down, he sucks it down like a vacuum.