Page 91 of The Obsession
She tips out the water and turns in a huff, heading for the fridge to grab the carton of milk. When she’s done, she snatches the bowl of tuna and starts towards the back door.
Lil’ Peach is still in my arms, so I follow. She pauses at the screen, both hands full, so I reach around her and push it open. She glances back at me with that sweet fucking smile of hers, and I grind my teeth in annoyance.
“After you,” I mutter, trying to sound casual, as I follow her outside, keeping a careful distance.
Emily moves with a kind of effortless care, like she’s done this a thousand times. My eyes are glued to her tight arse, bewitched by the hypnotic swing of her hips.
She squats gracefully, setting the bowls in front of the cat. “Pussy cat,” Peach whines, reaching out with her grabby hands and trying to wiggle out of my hold.
“Let the cat eat first, then you can pet it,” I tell her, shifting her on my hip.
The cat doesn’t seem to mind the audience. It dives into the tuna like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered, and Ipretend to be focused on Lil’ Peach, while my thoughts are everything but.
Emily stands to full height and places her hand on her chest. “Oh, look, the poor thing is starving.”
“It’s not starving, Em. It’s a pig. If that thing gets any fatter, you’ll have to roll it around like a furry beach ball.”
She gasps. “That is mean. He’s homeless.”
“Homeless? He’s a freeloader who is using those giant, sad eyes to con everyone into feeding its disgusting little habit.”
Emily shakes her head, trying not to laugh. “You’re horrible.”
“Pussy cat,” Peach says again, reaching out for Emily this time, so I pass her over. The cat isn’t skittish at all. It seems entirely at ease around humans, which only clarifies my earlier claim. This animal is no stray.
Emily crouches back down with Lil’ Peach in her arms. The cat has already devoured the entire can of tuna and is now lapping up the milk.
She grasps Lil’ Peach’s tiny hand and gently guides it over the cat’s back, running it along its fur. Again, I’m struck by how patient and kind she is with my niece.
“We should name it,” I hear Emily say, and I roll my eyes.
“It probably already has a name,” I grumble. “Probably several. The entire neighbourhood has more than likely named him.”
She glances at me over her shoulder and purses her lips. “Well, if that’s the case, we have to name him too. He can have his own special identity when he’s in our yard.”
Our yard.Why do I love that she saidourso much?
I smirk. “How about Fat Cat, or Chubster, or Sir Snacks-a-Lot?”
Emily bursts out laughing. “You’re awful.”
“Fat Cat,” Peach squeals, clapping her hands together.
“I was thinking, Babooshka,” Emily says. “But we can call him Fat Cat for short.”
“Babooshka?” I ask with a raised brow because that’s a stupid fucking name.
“Yeah, like the Kate Bush song.”
I shake my head. I have no idea what song she’s talking about.
She stands, bringing Peach with her, and starts rocking her hips from side to side as she spins them both in a circle. “Babooshka, Babooshka, Babooshka, ya-ya,” she sings.
My niece throws her head back and giggles with delight. “I dance too, Emmy.”
Emily sets her on her feet and reaches for her little hands. The way my baby girl beams when they start moving again hits me straight in the chest. Her smile is wide, unfiltered, and so pure.
I remember how happy she looked dancing at the Christening with the other kids, spinning around like the world was made just for her. Maybe I should think about getting her lessons or some shit. Something that makes her feel like this more often.
