Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Don’t listen to her, Pudge,” he says, gathering my ginger love into his arms, where he immediately begins to purr. “You don’t have to play hard to get with me. The feeling is totally mutual and we’re going to tear it up on the ice.”
And that’s how we end up on the subway uptown an hour later, with Pudge in his carrier—a clear bubble backpack that lets him see everything around him while staying safe and cozy—and Anthony and I bundled in sweaters and scarves.
The walk through Central Park to the rink is pure enchantment, with fresh snow peacefully resting beside the recently cleared paths and holiday music drifting from vendors selling toasted nuts and mugs of cocoa.
Christmas may be over, but it doesn’t seem like anyone in New York is ready to let the holiday season go just yet. The rink is still bedecked in lights with a massive tree in the center that Pudge studies with extreme interest as we stop to take a quick selfie halfway through our skating session.
“He looks like he wants to be up that tree wrestling with the Nutcracker ornaments,” I say, laughing as Pudge meows in agreement.
Anthony glances over his shoulder toward the pack. “Oh yeah? Are you a Christmas tree terror, Pudge?”
“The worst. I had to switch to felt ornaments to protect the ornaments and his paws,” I say, as we skate off to join the rest of the people circling the ice on this peaceful morning. Thanks to our relatively early rise, we’re here before the tourists have descended and the city feels like it belongs to the locals again. But by the time we finish at eleven, the hordes are assembling at the skate rental.
“Hungry?” Anthony asks as we change back into our shoes, Pudge prowling the area around us on his leash, enjoying a break from the carrier. “We could grab lunch up here before we head back to our neck of the woods.”
“Starving,” I say. “But we’d have to find a pet-friendly place. I don’t think Pudge will be up for much more carrier time without an extended break to stretch his legs. Preferably somewhere warm and dry.”
Pudge meows as he shakes a paw made damp from melting ice rink shavings and shoots a slightly traumatized look my way.
I gather him into my arms, assuring him, “I know, wet paws are the worst. Sorry, buddy.”
“What about this?” Anthony asks, extending his phone my way.
I glance down to see shots of a cute café with exposed brick, fairy lights, and cat trees and climbing walls integrated into the decor. And they serve brunch!
“Perfect,” I breathe. “If it isn’t too far.”
“Twenty short blocks once we’re out of the park, but we could take a scooter.” His grin turns mischievous. “The electric ones go pretty fast.”
I exhale a nervous laugh. “But not too fast. I’m a chicken.”
“You are not. You’re one of the bravest people I know,” he says, leaning over to give me a quick kiss that makes me feel warm all over. “But we can take it slow until you feel safe.”
“All right,” I say, trusting him the way I have from the beginning.
He’s just so easy to trust, this man whose hand feels so familiar in mine as we wander toward Central Park West.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pressed against Anthony’s back as we zip north into the Bronx in the bike lane, Pudge once again in his backpack between us. The cold air stings my cheeks but I’m not nearly as scared as I thought I’d be.
In fact, I can’t stop smiling.
“Hold on, turning left at the next intersection,” Anthony calls over his shoulder as he takes advantage of a green light to turn onto a quieter street.
I hug him tight, breathing in his cologne mixed with winter air, once again keenly aware of how lucky I am to be here. To be alive and healthy and sharing another amazing day with a man who makes every wonderful thing even more wonderful because I get to share it with him.
When we finally reach our destination, the Cool Kitty Cat Café lives up to the photos, and then some.
Holiday lights twinkle along exposed brick walls, evergreen boughs adorn the mantle above a crackling fireplace in the main room, and the scent of coffee mingles with fresh-baked pastries and panini sandwiches. Cat trees and climbing shelves create a feline superhighway around the perimeter, where resident cats lounge like furry emperors, reminding me of Elaina’s motley crew at Sweet Pussy back home.
After we order paninis and a homemade cat treat cookie for Pudge and make our way to our table with a number to await the food, I tell Anthony about Elaina’s cat café where I first met Pudge, and the stir it made around our small town when it opened. “The name drove the fussy old ladies crazy. You would have thought she was shooting kittens in the street, not saving them from kill shelters.”