Then I howled again because Fluffy was supposed to respond.
Martha shouted something about tomorrow at ten and blaming me if it went badly.
I dropped my head against the sofa and closed my eyes.
This had gotten out of hand.
No.
This had sprinted out of hand, stolen a car, crossed three borders, and sent me a postcard from the ruins of my common sense.
I needed to fix this tomorrow.
For my mate.
For my dignity.
For my heart.
And possibly before her cat murdered me in my sleep.
The next morning, I waited until Martha left the apartment before I moved.
And by waited, I mean I sat in full ‘Fluffy’ form on her living room rug for twenty-three minutes, pretending not to understand the words “be good,” while every cell in my body screamed because she had bent down before leaving and k
