Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
“Won’t say otherwise,” Owen said, pulling over and swiftly getting out of the car.
“That says otherwise!” His exclamation came out a whisper as the bundle started wriggling.
Owen quietly opened Jason’s door and rapidly slipped his hands around the blanketed devil. Suddenly there was a frenzy of movement and pressure at his terrified crotch, and Jason was of two minds about it. The bigger mind wanted it over, all wriggling to cease, pronto. The smaller mind was quite taken with how calmly Owen was handling it all. Each shift of his hands danced over sensitive spaces, protecting them from rather pointy claws. Something snagged on his inner thigh.
A blood-curdling demonic shriek filled the car.
It wasn’t coming from the Tasmanian Devil.
Jason could see the appeal of “torpor”, or whatever. I’m nothing interesting. Take those claws and let me be.
Owen got the devil in a firm hold and raced him into the nearby bush. Other cries emanated from the wilderness, and then Owen came charging back through the rain, laughing.
Behind the wheel, he looked at Jason in amused exasperation.
“I know,” Jason rubbed his face. “I’m a magnet for misadventure.”
“A magnificent magnet for misadventure.”
Yeah.
Owen palmed Jason’s thigh, dragging his index finger along the inner seam. What had just been terrorised was suddenly tingling. “Did it get you?”
Jason blinked, startled, and looked down. Owen was outlining a small tear in his jeans.
Oh. He squeezed his thighs together and shook his head. “Ah, I’m fine. Just got the denim.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh yes, thank you, Sergeant Owen Stirling. Sir.”
“That wasn’t a directive, Jason.” Jason lifted his gaze from the large, dexterous hand trapped between his suddenly frozen thighs. “Thank you for picking up the devil. Not many would help a marsupial stuck on the road during a cyclone.”
“I’m not sure I deserve praise for a case of mistaken identity.”
“Hmm. I’m definitely thankful despite”—Owen met his eyes—“mistaken identity. And I feel . . .”
“What?”
“Even if you thought you only loved cats and would only ever stop for a cat, actually you’re discovering you would stop for other things. And they might become tolerable to you. Special, even.”
“Oh, Owen. I know exactly what you’re saying.”
Owen let out a long breath, ticklishly dragged his fingers free, and started the car.
“But I have to say, it’d have to be some snake for me to find it special.”
Owen’s parents’ house was brown stone with white trim, two-storey—warm light was spilling from a large bay window, an inviting beacon in a storm. Blanket covering their heads, Owen raced him up to the porch, where his mum and dad—and Mary, who they’d offered to take during the hospital rush—were waiting for them. Matching tartan dressing gowns enfolded them in hugs and shut the door on the wailing of the storm.
“Good of you to take care of that cat.” A pat on Jason’s shoulder. Jason looked up into Nathan’s crinkled eyes. “Just like my Owen. Such a good heart. He picked an injured devil up off the road once; helped it even though it scratched him up in the process.”
Jason shook his head at Owen. “He left out that little story.”
“Oh,” Renee said. “I’m sure there are many stories he’s ‘left out’.” She clapped her hands, and Owen’s eyes widened.
Jason tucked a laughing face behind Owen and followed him and his family into the living room. Mary ambled straight over to a sheepskin near one of the two lamps that gently lit the cosy space, circled three times, and flopped down with a soft huff.
Patricia and Cora, it seemed, had gone straight to their beds, and with Renee and Nathan lounging against a mass of cushions on the couch—no tartan in here, just soft reds and golds—Owen had settled into the armchair.
Jason trucked up and down the living area, partly to satisfy his curiosity about where Owen had grown up, and partly because he wasn’t sure if he should sit at Owen’s feet or sling himself onto his lap. He hoped the lack of ‘practice’ between them wasn’t starting to show.
The room was filled with knickknacks and little collections of sculpted fruit in terracotta, porcelain, wood. They spoke of travels and interests and a voracious . . . love of stone fruit?
Jason’s gaze wandered over wax-dribbled candles, an old pin cushion, a wooden bird feeder with the words Love from Owen burned into the side.
He grinned and carried on, absorbing all the clues, until a candid family picture caught his eye. Parents and two young children, a boy and a girl. They were laughing, playing chase at the beach . . . a familiar backdrop. He recognised the rock formation, the way the shore curved.
This was the spot Owen had taken him to. Twice.
A place he and his family cherished?
A special spot?
Owen’s mother’s voice startled him out of the touching thought. “Oh damn, sorry Carl—we left the photo album at Owen’s place.”