The Bobcat's Tate
“He’s my fated mate, right?” Lainey asked Marigold. Marigold was dusting the books in the boarding house’s sitting room, and Lainey had grabbed a broom to help her.
“Does he feel like your fated mate? Jeez, we need some books from this century. Some hot, sexy romance would be nice.” Marigold swept a feather duster over the Little House on the Prairie collection, and sneezed.
“He feels…amazing.” Lainey giggled, blushing at the memory of the night before, of Tate’s intimate explorations of her quaking body.
“I bet he does. He’s got quite the hot body. If I didn’t have an awesome fiancé, I’d be drooling all over him.”
“So, do psychics always answer a question with a question?”
“What makes you ask that?” Marigold asked with a devilish grin and a flourish of her duster.
“The fact that you—hey! You did it again.”
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