Come one, come all, and join in the December issue of the monthly ‘what if’ game.
Rules are simple: All you have to do is read the below scenario, then imagine it is YOURSELF in there and leave a comment detailing what YOU would do.
You do NOT have to be a writer to participate. This is NOT a contest. This is purely for FUN and ALL are invited to play.
Here’s your scenario:
You always knew there was something not quite right about the cat your aunt bought you as a house-warming gift. She’d said it was a regular ginger tabby. Never mind that it was HUGE and its hind legs held muscle mass Arnie would’ve been proud of, or the fact that its tail seemed to be running a one-man show with its constant contortionist acts. Or that its eyes were the blue of WKD. Aunt Pearl insisted it was normal. Just as she’d argued that the blasted creature was a she—despite the furry swellings that no female should have to live with.
For a while, you decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.
Until you swore the freaky animal smiled at you last week when you were peeling off your undies as it watched from dresser.
You’d swatted your bra in its direction, with a hissed, ‘Shoo, Blue.’
All that had earned you was a crazy-assed wink that your aunt had explained away as dust in its eye when you’d confronted her about it.
The next episode occurred in the kitchen—when you went downstairs one morning to discover the fridge open, half the contents missing, and Blue slumped on his butt looking like he’d swallowed a basketball.
‘What the hell, Blue!’ you’d yelled.
Blue had just purred.
Those were just the beginning of a whole series of events, each one of them as irritating and unnerving as the last.
Thanks to him, you’re as nervous as heck.
The call from Aunt Pearl announcing she’d set you up on a blind date left you screaming expletives at walls that couldn’t give a damn. You left the house purely to humour a woman who wouldn’t know how to give up even if she dropped dead. You even left the house wearing the little black number that usually bore results after—crazily—asking Blue’s opinion and receiving his purred response. When you walked into the restaurant and the waitress had shown you to your table, it had taken every ounce of will power not to goggle at the dude sitting at your table—a russet headed, blue eyed, hunky-as-hell dude whose gaze landed on you the instant you rounded the corner.
The evening only went uphill from there.
And after hours spent mesmerised by his extremely strong-looking hands, and his capable arms, and wondering about the strength of his thighs beneath the table, your offer of coffee has been accepted with a wink and a smile that sent your heart all aflutter.
But the closer you get to home, the tighter your body coils.
Because Blue has been less than receptive to all other ‘guests’ you’ve invited there.
The last guy left with a chewed shoe and claw marks in his shirt only to find his Audi hadn’t fared much better in the twenty minutes he managed to stick it out before Blue drove him away.
“Please let Blue behave,” you mumble under your breath as you turn the key in the door and enter your home.
“Mind if I use your bathroom?” asks your date.
You nod. “Sure. It’s at the end—”
“I know where it is,” he mutters, already climbing the stairs.
Whilst he’s gone, you do a quick scout for Blue. “Blue,” you whisper, “here, kitty, kitty.”
But he’s not in the kitchen. Not in the lounge. Even after a little ‘pss pss pss’ing’ he doesn’t race down the stairs as he usually does when you return home.
Almost catching you in the act, your hot dude reappears at the top of the stairs and you straighten from your undignified squat of checking under the sideboard. “Coffee?” you ask, and vanish in the direction of the kitchen.
By the time his feet hit the floor tiles behind you, you’ve already switched on the kettle and started spooning the granules into a couple of mugs.
You jerk when something brushes across your back, dropping the spoon with a clatter, and spin to the hunk to give him a piece of your mind for his forwardness—but as you do, he brushes over you again … with his cheek across your shoulder blade.
“Aren’t you going to stroke me?” he murmurs—and as he emits a deep rumbling purr, your entire body freezes.
Hehehehe … the floor’s yours …