How’re the cats?” he asked, smiling a little. He did miss Angel Marie. Hell, he missed them all.
“Feral,” Benny sniffed. “And horny. Every time one of us walks in, they all start humping our shoes.”
“They’re fixed,” Shane mumbled, but the conversation was oddly reassuring. It sounded normal, and like home.
“Tell that to the big fuzzy brown one….”
“Orlando Bloom?”
“Yeah, whatever. Last time I was there that damned animal violated my knitting.”
Shane lost a battle with a laugh and then whined because it hurt his ribs.
“Violated?”
[...]
“Let’s just say that wool is no longer virgin,” she quipped dryly, and Shane’s chest shook.

Author: Amy Lane