Page 38 of Playing With Fire

“No. Absolutely not.” I shake my head.

His tail flicks in response. The nerve of this little shit. “You know you’re not supposed to be up there.”

Nothing.

“Down.” I point at the floor. “Now.”

He blinks. Just. Fucking. Blinks.

Fantastic. I’m twenty-eight years old, captain of a professional hockey team that can get twenty grown men to shut the fuck up and listen when I need them to, but I can’t manage to get one geriatric, overweight cat off my counter.

I set my shake down.

“All right. You and I need to establish some ground rules.”

Darcy’s ears twitch.

“First, this is my apartment.”

A tiny hiss, so low I almost miss it.

“Second, that’s my counter your ass is on.”

Another hiss, this one definitely louder.

“And third, my pillow is officially off-limits.”

His tail sweeps lazily across the marble.

“Glad we understand each other.”

I reach for him, and a low warning sound rumbles from somewhere inside his furry little body, making the hiss sound somewhat friendly.

My hand stops. His little demon eyes challenge me. I stare back, praying he doesn’t smell fear. Is it dogs or bees that smell fear? Both maybe? Hell, if I know.

“Come on, little buddy,” I soften my tone. “You know me.”

His eyes narrow.

“Your family likes me.”

Nothing.

“In fact, Coach loves me, Mrs. B loves me. Even Beckett And I’m pretty sure that your Mommy–.”

His paw lifts.

I pull my hand back. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“Excuse me. Are you threatening my cat?”

I freeze and turn to find Laney standing at the bottom of the stairs, thank fuck, fully dressed this time. Black pants, some kind of sweater, hair piled on top of her head in a way that looks like it took either thirty seconds or twenty minutes. With women, there’s no way to tell.

I clear my throat. “Morning.”

“Morning, Ken.” She smiles and moves toward me.

I’m still in the athletic shorts I threw on for my workout, with my shirt somewhere upstairs because I haven’t bothered to shower yet.