Training Cats: On Call

By P.D. Singer

Close enough to touch, and still out of reach—Evan rings the PriceCo pharmacy register for Brent and keeps his thoughts about the pharmacist to himself. He dies a little inside every time he sees Brent with Tyler—why does Brent let that jerk treat him like dirt?

 

After one humiliation too many, Brent's asking himself that same question. He has a better chance of teaching a cat to sit and stay than of convincing handsome, self-centered Tyler to be thoughtful. It's time to be single again.

 

With the right bait, Evan can teach a cat to roll over or a man to see what's before his eyes. He might use Kitty Noms, or a touch of kindness, a pinch of consideration, and a trail of M&Ms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rocky Ridge Books
• Release date: Jun 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393037309

P.D. Singer

P.D. Singer lives in Colorado with her slightly bemused husband, one proto-adult, and thirteen pounds of cats. She’s a big believer in research, first-hand if possible, so the reader can be quite certain P.D. has skied down a mountain face-first, been stepped on by rodeo horses, acquired a potato burn or two, and will never, ever, write a novel that includes sky-diving.When not writing, playing her fiddle, or skiing, she can be found with a book in hand.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Published by:

Rocky Ridge Books

PO Box 6922

Broomfield, CO 80021 USA

http://RockyRidgeBooks.com

Training Cats

Copyright © P.D. Singer 2013

Cover art by P.D. Singer

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced electronically or otherwise except as brief quotes for purposes of review.

M&M is a registered trademark of Mars, Inc.

First edition 2011 by Torquere Press

TRAINING CATS

It was past seven, but Tyler didn’t have to stand there looking at his watch with his put-upon eyes. Brent had already pulled the metal barricade across the counter, and once he started the computer backup, he could lock the pharmacy and get out into the main store for the weekly grocery shopping. They had an hour before PriceCo closed.

Then the young woman appeared, with either a coughing toddler or a barking seal on her hip and deep shadows on her face, clutching a prescription. Oh, no… We just left the urgent care…

Get started, I’ll find you, Brent called to his lover, and then said to the woman, This will take a few minutes. Brent got birthdate and weight on the child—the croupy cough meant Don’t wait to fill this to anyone but Tyler, who managed to get the idea of flounce into the way he pushed the shopping cart toward the back of the store.

For a wonder, the insurance went through on the first try, letting Brent pour, label, and counsel in record time. He could get the med into the little boy and still intercept Tyler before he filled the cart with slabs of prime beef and a rack of lamb. Appreciating the finer things as he did, Tyler still managed to keep his appetite for filet mignon under control unless it was Brent’s week to buy food.

Patient settled and lights off at last, Brent strode up the aisle, not finding Tyler’s brunette waves and pattable ass among the relatively safe canned goods or the slightly more dangerous freezer section, and no, not in the fresh vegetables either, all green and red in the plastic jackets they’d worn on the trip north from Chile. He’d been there, though—the cart held artichokes and bagged salads. Funny how they managed to cut up the romaine themselves every other week.

We can’t eat that much steak, Ty! At least he’d located his boyfriend still at the meat counter, where Brent could set two packages of tenderloins back in the cooler without an embarrassing dash across the store or the worse humiliation of setting them aside at the checkout. He left the third package in the cart.

But we’re having dinner with Chet and Russell. Tyler cradled the packages possessively, his freshly manicured hands pale against the rich red beef.

"Not ‘til