Quinn doesn't feel worthy of love thanks to his history as an ex-CIA operative. He won't allow himself to get emotionally close to a woman he knows who loves him. He's a bit of a woman chaser, a user, but avoids any type of commitment.
Then Furball blows into his life.
Quinn scratched under the grey feline’s white chin and was rewarded with a loud purr. “Sorry I scared you earlier. We’ve got big changes ahead, buddy.” He rolled over for his owner to rub his white belly. “Cat’s aren’t supposed to like this.” His palm ruffled fur from the animal’s neck to groin. “Besides, I’ve got work to do.”
Furball nipped the edge of Quinn’s hand. “You little grey bastard, and after the way I saved your ass too.” This was an ongoing argument between the two since the night Quinn found him scratching frantically on the outside of his sliding glass doors in the living room, drenched, wild-eyed and scared all to hell and back. A category two hurricane was blowing through and, the best Quinn could decipher, the hundred-mile-per-hour winds had propelled the scrawny kitten onto his second story balcony. How it had survived had been a miracle. He’d shown signs of malnutrition according to the veterinarian he’d taken him to as soon as the hurricane abated.
That stormy night back in September, when Quinn slid open the door, Furball teetered in on his last leg of energy and collapsed as if he’d finally found home. The man, who’d never been allowed to own a pet as a child, wrapped the sodden animal in a hand towel—hell he’d been too small for a bath towel—and laid him across his lap while he watched a New England Patriots football game. During halftime, he’d fed the weakened kitten by dipping his pinky finger into warmed milk and allowing its roughened tongue to lick it off. A few minutes later, the power went out, and both cat and new owner snoozed on the sofa.
Five months of constant feeding, deworming, flea dips and care had fattened the Furball. Someone had spoiled the feline, too, and Quinn had no clue who that bastard was. Surely not him. The trouble was the kitten’s harrowing experience in the hurricane had left him traumatized. He trembled during storms, seeking refuge in the crook of Quinn’s neck or in a pile of old beach towels he kept under the bed for the tomcat’s sanctuary, along with a stuffed toy or two.
He hand feeds Furball treats and allows him to sleep with him. So as an animal owner, how will he treat Cassie once he admits how he truly feels for her. No, he won't hand feed her treats, but he might care for and spoil her the way he does Furball.
Besides, Cassie's been crushing on Quinn for three years and she's determined to get her man. And we all know there's nothing more dangerous than a determined woman.
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