head. He’d done nothing but work to please her. Not that she’d like all of their sex to be that wild, but Peter had definitely opened up a new world of sexual pleasure for her.
She shifted her foot, expecting to hit Mr. Jingles, but the cat wasn’t on the bed. That was odd. Perhaps the unusual activity had frightened him. He had always been sensitive to her moods. Rolling away from Peter, Meghan slipped from his embrace, barely rustling him from his slumber. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
Slipping into a robe, she went in search of the cat. The poor thing was probably curled up on the couch sulking about the lack of attention, but as she reached the bottom of the stairs, Meghan couldn’t recall having let him back in the house. She was usually so conscientious about making sure he was in at night. The poor animal was too old to weather the chill of winter.
Meghan searched through the rooms downstairs, turning on lights as she went. Nothing. Guilt pinched her heart. Peter and his fantasy was the only thing on her mind when she’d padded upstairs hours ago. The poor cat was probably wondering why he’d been abandoned to the elements.
Opening the front door, she whistled, the sound piercing through the night. She watched for him to appear from the bushes next to the house. But when he didn’t materialize from the shadows, Meghan whistled louder, scanning up and down the street, still nothing moved.
Where could he be?
Meghan called for the cat, doing a more thorough search of his usual resting spots, but he was nowhere in the house. She grabbed the box of cat treats on her way through the kitchen. Sliding open the back door, she rattled the box and whistled. Wind shook the birdfeeders and whispered through the trees. Wrapping her robe tighter, she called again. A shadow slid across the deck just past the wedge of light from the kitchen. Mr. Jingles . Meghan alternately made kissing noises and apologized to her cat in a high-pitched voice, hoping to coax him to her. Still he didn’t come. The poor thing was obviously mad.
She stepped into the gardening clogs she kept by the back door and trudged onto the deck. Meghan hated traipsing through the snow to search through the shrubbery beneath the deck, but if that’s what it took to get the old cat safely into the house, then she would. As she moved to the bottom of the stairs, she saw the shadow shift again and whistled to Mr. Jingles. He was being unusually stubborn. Focused on the shrubbery, her foot stepped on a chunk of snow and sent her slipping down the steps. She came down hard on her bottom.
“Meghan?” Peter called from the kitchen door. “Honey, what are you doing out there?’
She stood and turned to him, the scream of terror ripping from her throat.
Chapter 7
“Ayden, quit hogging the bread,” Damon called from the far end of the table.
The dining room of Deirdre’s farmhouse bustled with the noise of a Tilling Sunday dinner.
“So the Patriots look like they’re going to have a good season.” Deirdre spoke to no one in particular. “Could mean they’re Super Bowl contenders.”
“You say that every year, Dee,” Julie chimed. “Pass the salad, will you, please, Doc?”
Doc McCarty sat quietly at the end of the table, next to Meghan’s dad, John. The two of them seemed equally happy to be watching the ordered chaos of the meal.
Alice Tilling leaned close to Meghan. “Honey, I didn’t have a chance to tell you how sorry I am to hear about Mr. Jingles.” She absently picked up the basket of bread and sent it down to Damon. “He was so old, honey. You must have known this would happen soon.” The silk of her hand wrapped around Meghan’s forearm.
“I know.” Meghan pushed the vegetarian lasagna around on her plate. Nothing had looked good to her since she’d found her cat dead on the stairs two nights ago. “But I feel just awful about it. I didn’t know an animal could freeze to death.”
“Are you sure that’s what
She shifted her foot, expecting to hit Mr. Jingles, but the cat wasn’t on the bed. That was odd. Perhaps the unusual activity had frightened him. He had always been sensitive to her moods. Rolling away from Peter, Meghan slipped from his embrace, barely rustling him from his slumber. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
Slipping into a robe, she went in search of the cat. The poor thing was probably curled up on the couch sulking about the lack of attention, but as she reached the bottom of the stairs, Meghan couldn’t recall having let him back in the house. She was usually so conscientious about making sure he was in at night. The poor animal was too old to weather the chill of winter.
Meghan searched through the rooms downstairs, turning on lights as she went. Nothing. Guilt pinched her heart. Peter and his fantasy was the only thing on her mind when she’d padded upstairs hours ago. The poor cat was probably wondering why he’d been abandoned to the elements.
Opening the front door, she whistled, the sound piercing through the night. She watched for him to appear from the bushes next to the house. But when he didn’t materialize from the shadows, Meghan whistled louder, scanning up and down the street, still nothing moved.
Where could he be?
Meghan called for the cat, doing a more thorough search of his usual resting spots, but he was nowhere in the house. She grabbed the box of cat treats on her way through the kitchen. Sliding open the back door, she rattled the box and whistled. Wind shook the birdfeeders and whispered through the trees. Wrapping her robe tighter, she called again. A shadow slid across the deck just past the wedge of light from the kitchen. Mr. Jingles . Meghan alternately made kissing noises and apologized to her cat in a high-pitched voice, hoping to coax him to her. Still he didn’t come. The poor thing was obviously mad.
She stepped into the gardening clogs she kept by the back door and trudged onto the deck. Meghan hated traipsing through the snow to search through the shrubbery beneath the deck, but if that’s what it took to get the old cat safely into the house, then she would. As she moved to the bottom of the stairs, she saw the shadow shift again and whistled to Mr. Jingles. He was being unusually stubborn. Focused on the shrubbery, her foot stepped on a chunk of snow and sent her slipping down the steps. She came down hard on her bottom.
“Meghan?” Peter called from the kitchen door. “Honey, what are you doing out there?’
She stood and turned to him, the scream of terror ripping from her throat.
Chapter 7
“Ayden, quit hogging the bread,” Damon called from the far end of the table.
The dining room of Deirdre’s farmhouse bustled with the noise of a Tilling Sunday dinner.
“So the Patriots look like they’re going to have a good season.” Deirdre spoke to no one in particular. “Could mean they’re Super Bowl contenders.”
“You say that every year, Dee,” Julie chimed. “Pass the salad, will you, please, Doc?”
Doc McCarty sat quietly at the end of the table, next to Meghan’s dad, John. The two of them seemed equally happy to be watching the ordered chaos of the meal.
Alice Tilling leaned close to Meghan. “Honey, I didn’t have a chance to tell you how sorry I am to hear about Mr. Jingles.” She absently picked up the basket of bread and sent it down to Damon. “He was so old, honey. You must have known this would happen soon.” The silk of her hand wrapped around Meghan’s forearm.
“I know.” Meghan pushed the vegetarian lasagna around on her plate. Nothing had looked good to her since she’d found her cat dead on the stairs two nights ago. “But I feel just awful about it. I didn’t know an animal could freeze to death.”
“Are you sure that’s what
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