But as he sank into one of the chairs at the table, the cat stopped grooming itself and slinked over to join him. As it butted its head against his forearm, Vic elbowed it aside—gently, though. He didn’t wish the cat any harm. He’d just like it to get the hell off the table.
When the cat approached him a second time, Vic picked it up gingerly and set it on the floor. It meowed once, a pitiful sound, and watched him as he settled into his seat. The moment he was comfortable, with the paper open before him, the cat nimbly jumped back onto the table. “God damn it,” Vic muttered under his breath.
From the kitchen, Matt snickered. “There’s no arguing with a cat,” he told Vic as he came into the dining area. He held a full mug of coffee in one hand and a saucer of milk in the other. “You might as well just get used to it now. It’ll get what it wants in the end.”
Sipping his hot java, Vic murmured, “Now who’s that remind me of?”