The Only Cat Who Knows Where It's At
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“Miles, y’know, it’s sweet of you to keeping checking in on me, it really is,” he said, “but it’s really not necessary –”
He stopped, halfway done rolling off the couch, his jaw hanging open. It wasn’t Miles framed in the window but a small child – a little boy of about seven or eight years old, with messy brown hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks.
“Who’s Miles?” the kid had the audacity to ask.
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Three generations of Hardys show up at Peter's window.
Series
- Part 1 of The Only Cat Who Knows Where It's At
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"How about I slip into something a little less comfortable and you can frisk me for old time’s sake?”
Peter snorted. Then he thought about it.
“On a rooftop?” he asked.
“You just pick the skyscraper, baby,” Felicia said, dragging one finger down Peter’s chest. “I’ll be there with bells on. Literally.”
She pulled away from him with a wink, a sway in her steps as she padded silent through the living room. Peter loved her.
Her father was right about one thing. A woman like Felicia deserved something more special than a ring from Zales hidden away in a cake.
She deserved a proposal as unique as she was.
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Peter proposes to Felicia, robs a museum, and chaperones his son's science class. Not in that order.
Series
- Part 2 of The Only Cat Who Knows Where It's At