Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Carson
I work alone. Always have. Until I get assigned a private job to locate a missing person. Or, as it turns out, a missing feline. May is billed as a pet communicator. I’m skeptical at first. How could I not be? But the more I get to know May, the more I appreciate her unique talent. Solving this mystery is high on my Christmas list, but May is at the very top.
May
I’m not good with people. I’m awkward, talk too much or too little, and inevitably say something totally off topic or out of line. I prefer cats. With them, you always know where you stand. Carson is like that too. We’ve only just met, and he’s huge and gruff and kind of prickly. He’s like a big cat, one I want to learn more about. This case of the missing kitty is just what I need to help a cat in need this Christmas as well as spend time with a man who seems to get me in a way no one else ever has. But will we be more than just this job?
MINK's Cuddle up with your favorite feline for some holiday fun!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
CARSON
Icheck the address from my texts, then look up at the enormous manor house behind a high wrought-iron gate. Enormous wreaths hang on the metal, their greenery dotted with red flowers, and in the center of each is a golden outline of a cat. “This can’t be right.” But it is. The address matches, and as I pull up to the gate, a woman in uniform steps from the guardhouse.
“Mr. Blair, private investigator?” she asks, her gaze raking over my car and then me.
“Yes.”
“I’ll need your ID.” She gives me a friendly smile, but I don’t miss the gun at her hip or the way she stands–she’s a cop. Or, at the very least, she was. She’s been trained. And the way her boots are polished and her hair is neatly styled in a close-fitting bun, she’s also ex-military.
“Sure.” I hand her my license.
She checks it over, then presses the radio on her shoulder. “Carson Blair.”
Handing my ID back, she gestures toward the now-opening gate. “Mrs. Farrol is waiting. Please park by the fountain, and Dudley will meet you there.”
I sigh inwardly. I’m well acquainted with the super-rich doing particularly weird shit. Cats on Christmas wreaths is nothing. Though, I must admit, when I took this job, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I suppose I still don’t. An old contact of mine, Stewart, messaged me that he had a lead on a job that’s right up my alley. Missing person. High profile. Real money involved. He’d already set up the meet. That’s all I needed to know. I got the address and went into action.
Now that I’m here, I realize I should’ve done a bit more research before jumping in blind. Then again, I’ve always been up for a challenge.
The grounds are manicured to perfection, some sort of flowers growing in mounds along the winding driveway, a light dusting of snow still on the grassier parts. Turf spreads out on either side, all of it cut into perfect diamonds. Any golf course would shit itself to see how well kept each blade of grass is out here.
Ahead, a mansion rises from the rolling hills, the façade French with vines climbing around the entryway. Wreaths with golden cats dot the windows of the enormous mansion. Whoever lives here–they’re in a tax bracket most can only dream of.
“Fuck.” I run a hand through my dark hair as I pull to a stop next to a fountain adorned with mermaids and tritons. It looks like something out of a museum.
A man stands at the front entryway, his black butler’s suit something straight out of a period drama. Stiff upper lip, even stiffer back, he eyes me with open disdain as I step from my car and slam the door.
I stride toward him, the cold gravel crunching under my feet. No stone out of place, it looks like someone just raked it.
“Mr. Blair.” He gives a short bow, his English accent unmissable. “I’m Dudley, Mrs. Farrol’s butler. Please follow me to her sitting room.”
I dip my chin in acknowledgement, then clock the front of the house now that I’m closer. Three stories, windows are wide and unbarred. The grounds are open, and anyone lurking in the tree line out near the edge of the property would have a clear view of everyone coming and going. But it also means that if someone were trying to leave the house, they could be spotted from inside. I suspect there are plenty of eyes in this place. An estate this large certainly has a staff larger than Mr. Dudley and the guard out front. Someone has to rake the gravel into perfect patterns, after all.