by Rosie Pease
“Hi, kitty.”
She looked up at me and meowed, a short little chirp I believed meant hello. She used it whenever she walked into a room I was in.
This calico had proven to have a ton of personality, even in just the two short weeks I’d had her. She shook her tail when she got excited, which happened every time I fed her. Sometimes she got so riled up as she ate, and she’d half-growled, half-meowed as she chowed down. It was the funniest thing. She’d taken to curling up on the back of the couch when I wasn’t home. I often found her there as I walked into the apartment until her head shot up when she realized I was home, and then she’d scamper into the kitchen to be fed. That cat loved her food. But whenever I curled up on the couch to read, she’d hop down from her perch and claim the spot either at the end of my feet where my blanket bunched up or on my legs. At night, she always slept right in between my knees. I was still getting used to the cramps I’d wake up with because I never wanted to disturb her by moving when she was on me. The cramps always went away after a few minutes of walking around.
She’d gotten a clean bill of health from the vet when she went for her first round of shots, and she’d get fixed in the few days I had between the end of J-Term and the start of the next semester.
Everything was working out.
Except I still hadn’t figured out a name for her.
She meowed at me again.
“Have you seen my saffron? You know my spices aren’t toys. I told you that when you took the marjoram I needed to infuse with the cream cheese.” We were working on her not jumping up on the counter. She was getting better about it, but she wasn’t perfect. Then again, who was?
She stood up and immediately sat back down and meowed.
“That doesn’t tell me anything.” I put my hands on my hips. “Did you take the saffron?”
Once again, she stood up and sat back down, spinning in a tight circle before sitting for good measure.
“Saffron. Have you seen it?”
She stood up once more, looked me dead in the eye, and sat back down.
“Saff-ron,” I said slowly, drawing out each syllable. Why was I talking with my cat like she’d know what I was saying if I said it slower than normal? At this rate, I saw a lifetime of being the crazy cat lady ahead of me.
She meowed. Slowly, drawing out both the me and the ow for a few seconds. Just like I’d done with her.
“Are you mimicking me?” I crossed my arms and stared at her.
She was clearly unimpressed. If cats had eyebrows like humans did, I’d swear she raised one at me in response.
“If you’re not careful, it’s going to be your name,” I threatened. I had stooped to a new level. I wasn’t going to be a crazy cat lady—I already was one.
She stood up on her hind legs and reached up my leg.
“Saffron? Really?”
She tapped me with one paw twice in quick succession as if patting me for a job well done.
“All right, then. Saffron it is.”
She sat back down.
“But I’m calling you Saffy for short.”
She got up and walked out of the room, dismissing me with a flick of her tail.
Mere moments later, the larger container of saffron rolled into the kitchen from the living room, stopping only when it hit my foot.
If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought she planned it.
But cats couldn’t do that.
It was just a coincidence.
Right?
Joanie’s story continues in Cookies and Curses, available for preorder now.
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Ghosts, it’s time to meet your baker.
Joanie Sunevall has never been wrong when it comes to love. Since moving to Heartwood Hollow four years ago, she’s gotten twelve couples together. Her knack for matchmaking is only one reason why rumors swirl through the small town about her being a witch. The other is the belief she bakes magic into her treats. If only they knew about her ability to see ghosts, but that’s one secret Joanie doesn’t want discovered.
Joanie’s not a witch, although she plays into the rumors to sell more baked goods. And she loves helping people find who they’re meant to be with. When spirits interfere with the blossoming romance between Rich and Ashley, two of her regular customers, Joanie is put to the test.
She must decide what’s more important, fighting for true love or protecting her secret.
About the Author
Rosie Pease is a native Rhode Islander but has lived in Vermont, New York, and Ohio. She uses the places she’s traveled to as inspiration for the settings of her cozy mysteries, pulling the theater from one, the cider mill from another, the river from another to create a fictitious town that feels familiar.
She collects Funko Pops of the Harry Potter, Hunger Games, Doctor Who, DC TV, and Marvel varieties, with a few others thrown in for fun. Her desk is a mess, but she can find everything on it, so it works for her.
When she’s not writing, she’s playing with her daughter, hanging out with her husband, or being amused by her two crazy cats.
Come find me online:
Website: https://rosiepease.com
Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and Pinterest: @WriteRosiePease
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