Emery Matheson knows p*ssies. Cats, that is. As the star of a reality show called The P*ssy Tamer, it’s his job to fix extreme feline behavioral issues.
When he hears about his next project—a lonely cat hoarder named Estelle—he expects a little old widow, not the blond bombshell who opens the door.
With a 100 percent success rate, Emery has never had trouble finishing a job. But just a few hours into the first day of filming and one thing is clear—Estelle and her band of misfit p*ssies will give him a run for his money… and his heart.
Red spots began soaking through Emery’s gray T-shirt.
“Oh my God. You’re bleeding.” I pointed at his chest. “I’m so sorry.”
He just laughed. “Occupational hazard. We have a medic on hand for that very reason. Besides, it’s not like you didn’t warn me.”
His words summoned a brunette carrying a first aid kit.
“You know the drill,” she said, grinning at him while she opened the case and started lining up her supplies on the kitchen table.
Emery grabbed the back of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head, being careful not to disrupt the wires from his mic.
Suddenly, it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. The thin material had done little to hide the muscle definition underneath, but at least then I couldn’t see his smooth skin.
The ridges of his abs and that highly coveted V by his hips.
A thin smattering of hair covered his chest, traveling down the center of his abs and below his belly button. The light brown trail disappeared into the waist of his jeans.
I wanted to run my fingers over it. All of it. Even the parts I couldn’t see.
I was looking at the most magnificent torso ever—not just in real life—in the entire damn universe. He had movie stars and models beat. I remembered watching a video of Charlie Hunnam training for an upcoming role, and I’d been in awe of the amount of work it took to look that good.
Regular people didn’t just go walking around in that kind of shape. Apparently, Emery didn’t fall into the category of ‘regular people.’
And God bless him for it.
Feeling weak in the knees, I leaned my hip against the counter and wondered if I was the only one affected. Everyone else went about their tasks as usual. Well, everyone except for the medic.
After taking a seat, Emery said something to her about not using bandages this time, and her response was a nervous giggle. She quickly cleaned the area with disinfectant, then put cream over the scratches.
Red-faced, she slowly backed away as Emery slipped a new shirt on.
A different kind of heat flared through me, but this one was familiar and much more unpleasant than the virus I was fighting off.
I was jealous that she got to touch him.
I made a face, because that was ridiculous. Emery was here to work, not get eye-fucked by the crazy cat lady.
The hot-and-bothered medic taped a sign to the wall by the door. In big letters, it said, ‘Do not leave door open. Mike will run.’ It made my sudden desire to claw her eyes out diminish.
She was just doing her job.
Psycho much, Estelle?
Opening my cabinet, I grabbed the bottle of Tylenol and choked down a couple pills along with my sweet tea.
I extended the medicine toward Emery. “Want some?”
“Nah,” he replied. “It doesn’t hurt that bad.”
“That happens a lot, doesn’t it?” I lightly accused.
“Getting mauled by cats?” He laughed. “More times than I can count.”
“No.” I tipped my head toward the flushed woman retreating from my apartment. “People losing their shit every time you take your shirt off.”