Here Comes Trouble. Donna Kauffman

I’m going to do some damage all right,” he heard her mutter over his head, as she slowly began to descend, one careful rung at a time. And which he didn’t believe for a second. People who dragged massive ladders out from God-knows-where in order to climb into a centuries-old oak tree to save a terrified kitten were doubtfully the abusive types.

      As soon as she was on the ground, he let go of the ladder and took her arms, turning her to face him. “Here, let me get him.”

      “Her,” she grunted, “which, I am well aware makes two stupid females stuck in a tree. Just let me pry this one claw out of my—ouch! Dammit, cat!”

      Brett carefully unzipped the hoodie to find the most innocent looking, teeniest of tiny baby kittens…presently doing actual bloody damage to the front of its rescuer’s torso.

      “Damn,” he muttered as he tried to pry the claws out of both fabric and skin, which brought a few more swear words, but given the situation, her restraint, otherwise, was impressive.

      As Kirby was clearly past the point, Brett softened his own voice and did his best to calm the still-terrified kitty and de-prong the thing from the front of Kirby’s body. But every time he got one claw out, the kitty would redouble its efforts elsewhere, as if it were past comprehending that letting go no longer meant a plunge to its death.

      Finally Brett ripped his own T-shirt over his head and wrapped it around the kitten’s body, so that when it swiped its feet, it got tangled up in his T-shirt instead. It took a few more very painful maneuvers, but a minute later, he had the little hellion wrapped up.

      He crooned nonsense to the fluffball, then winced and swore himself as she got a few of his fingers through the shirt. “Blood-thirsty little thing, aren’t you?” He started to squat down to let her go.

      “No! She’ll just go right back up the tree.”

      Brett stood but tried to keep the now-squalling, squirming ball of kitten and T-shirt away from his body. “What did you have in mind then? Kitten soup?”

      “Don’t tempt me.”

      She turned toward the back door, which he saw now led to a screened-in porch outside and what looked like the kitchen beyond the door leading inside the house.

      “Let’s take her inside,” she said, “see if we can get her calmed down, then I’ll call Pete to come get her.”

      “Would Pete be the owner? Maybe he should have been the one climbing the tree,” Brett said as he followed her up onto the porch, still holding the kitten bundle aloft.

      “He’s with animal control. Actually, he is animal control.

      Only usually he deals with wild animals who get themselves in trouble. I think this one qualifies. These scratches sting like—”

      Brett paused at the bottom of the porch steps.

      “What?” she asked, turning back when she realized he wasn’t behind her.

      “You almost killed yourself getting her down and you’re giving her to the pound?” He thought it was funny how he’d thought her gray eyes so soft before. Storm clouds were soft compared to the color of her eyes at the moment.

      “You want to keep her? You’re welcome to. But there’s a surcharge for pets.”

      He grinned at that. “Okay. I’ll pay for room and board. And any damages,” he added as the storm clouds darkened.

      She looked like he’d suddenly sprouted two heads. “You’re really going to keep her?”

      “Not permanently, but I’m thinking we might be able to do a better job finding her a home than the dog catcher. Maybe find out where she strayed from in the first place. Maybe somebody’s missing her already.”

      Storm clouds parted. Momentarily, anyway. “Fine,” she said at length. “You’re responsible, then. I’m going in to clean up.”

      She tromped on into the house, apparently no longer concerned about him or the kitten. So why he was standing on the back stoop, grinning like an idiot—an idiot who’d never owned so much as a pet fish and had just apparently adopted a feral cat in the making—he had no idea. Maybe he was more road weary than he thought. Had to be it.

      “Come on, Claw,” he said to the still-squalling bundle. “Let’s see if you stay this ornery in the face of some food and water. Maybe we’ll feed both of us. Then figure out what our next step is.”

      He let the screen door slap shut behind him, still careful to keep the wriggling ball of cotton well away from his body. And thought maybe it was fitting, in a way. They were both outcasts, after all. Stuck in a limbo not entirely of their own choosing.

      He stepped into the kitchen and discovered Kirby at the sink, her hoodie gone and her long-sleeve shirt hiked up as she carefully dabbed at the bloody welts on her abdomen.

      He winced at the damage done to such tender, pale skin…but at the same time found himself thinking that if they had to be stuck, perhaps both he and the cat could have done far worse.

      Chapter 3

      The instant Kirby caught sight of Brett from the corner of her eye, entering the kitchen, she clumsily shut off the water with one hand and tugged her shirt back down with the other, wincing slightly as the cotton fabric rubbed over her raw, scratched flesh.

      “Flesh” being the key word flashing through her head. And the fact that Brett Hennessey was sporting quite a lot of it at the moment. Not, perhaps, as much as the eyeful she’d gotten when she’d looked up at his bedroom window. Holy crap. She’d be picturing all that masculine perfection in her dreams—waking and sleeping—for weeks. Who was she kidding? Months. Possibly longer. It wasn’t likely anything else would come along to top it anytime soon. It was a miracle she hadn’t dropped like a stone from the tree the instant she laid eyes on him. So…so much of him.

      She averted her gaze and gathered up the clutter of first aid supplies she’d pulled out of the little kit she kept under the sink for kitchen emergencies. It was silly to feel so self-conscious. After all, he was exposing a lot more than she’d been, and she seriously doubted he’d be as moved by the sight of her pale, scratched-up stomach as she’d been by his oh-so-perfectly-golden skin. So, so much skin…

      “I—uh, I have some milk. In the fridge. For the cat. They drink milk, right?”

      “I haven’t any idea.” He was just standing there, half naked. In her kitchen. The very same kitchen she’d fallen in love with for its roomy interior, high ceilings, and huge bay windows. Sunny, bright, and spacious. Suddenly it felt tiny, airless, and crowded. Very crowded. In fact, the only way to make a graceful exit was past his very big, very mostly naked body. At least she couldn’t seem to look anywhere but at the naked part. And given she’d seen the parts that were currently covered by his jeans, it was just as dangerous to look there. So, she simply wouldn’t look at him at all.

      She shoved the first aid kit under the sink and swung around to the cupboards over the opposite counter. “I have bowls in here.” She put one on the counter and then dragged the antique bread keeper over and rolled up the top. “Bread in here.” She scooted over to the pantry. “I think I have tuna.”

      Kirby knew she was babbling. Realized she was acting like an idiot teenager who was stumbling over her words in the face of the school stud. Unfortunately, acknowledging the ridiculousness of it didn’t seem to make it stop.

      After assembling her cluster of kitten-feeding amenities, she floundered for a moment. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

      When he didn’t reply right away, she was finally forced to turn and look at him. Still packed a punch. Jeans, broad, beautifully muscled shoulders, a six-pack that wouldn’t quit…and green eyes. Seriously? Didn’t seem fair, really. All that and killer eyes, too? Which were twinkling a little at the moment, despite the wriggling ball of black T-shirt dangling from his fist. So, he