The Love Prank (The Sullivans #2)

CHAPTER ONE

Amelia

My job would be a lot easier without the people involved. I’ll take an angry raccoon over a human ‘just tryin’ to help’ any day.

“Please stand back,” I say to the mother and her six-year-old son, who are literally peering over my shoulder as I attempt to catch sight of whatever critter is hiding under their porch.

The crawl space is too narrow and long and dark. I can’t see anything.

I straighten and face the mother, Ava Simms, who’s standing so close I can smell stale coffee and cigarettes on her breath. “I can’t see the animal, but I’ll leave a trap and come back tomorrow.”

“I want to see it now,” the little boy whines. “I want to pet the kitten.”

“Can’t you just get the kitten now?” Mrs. Simms pleads. Her blond hair is probably pretty when it’s all done up, but it looks stringy and greasy today, like she hasn’t had time for a shower in a while. Her makeup is done though, and lovely.

“A trap is the safest and most humane way to catch the animal,” I say. “I can’t even be sure it’s actually a kitten, and—”

The little boy kicks me in the shin so hard I say a very bad word. A word that should never be said in front of a child.

“It’s a kitten,” he screams. “I saw it, and I know it’s a kitten.”

I look at Mrs. Simms. My expression ought to be telling her to get a hold of her child and tell him not to kick people, but she won’t meet my eye.

The boy looks like he’s about to aim another kick at me, so I walk over to my truck to grab the trap.

“Aiden, sweetie,” Mrs. Simms says. “Do you want to be a big boy and peek under the house to see what the kitten’s doing?”

“I know it’s a kitten,” he says.

“Of course it is,” Mrs. Simms says. “I don’t doubt you for a moment.”

“She doubts me,” the little boy spits the words with a venom that rivals the force of his kick.

“I’m going to have a word with her about that,” she says.

I’m just pulling out the trap when she steps over to me and says in a low voice, “If you don’t get the kitten now, my husband’s going to shoot it.”

I’m an animal control officer in Southwest Virginia, so hearing about someone wanting to shoot a domesticated animal is a regular occurrence. And based on Mrs. Simms’ concerned expression, she’s not just saying what she thinks I need to hear to get me to do what she wants.

I shove the trap back into the truck. I’m a softie where animals are concerned, and I’m not going to have a kitten’s blood on my hands.

“It’s just that my husband hates cats, and we have a family of bunnies that show up every spring, and he’s convinced any cat on our property will kill those bunnies and—”

I hold up a hand because I’ve heard it all before. “I understand. You don’t need to explain.”

Grabbing a cat carrier instead of the trap, I pray that it really is a kitten under her house. I don’t mind handling the occasional wild animal when I have to, but they are far more unpredictable than domestic pets. Better to let a wildlife expert handle them.

Aiden is head and shoulders in the crawl space. “Come here, kitty,” he yells.

I sigh. “Can you ask your son to come out of the crawl space? It’ll be harder to catch the animal if it’s terrified.”

“No,” Mrs. Simms says. “He’ll come out when he’s ready.”

There is a long list of things I’d like to say to that, but I’m a public servant and I’m supposed to be polite.

Generally, I’m way too blunt for my own good, but I know enough to tick about half of the things I want to say off my list. “I appreciate your desire to gentle parent your son, but I don’t have the time to wait for him to be ready to come out. ”

“It’s not gentle parenting,” she says. “My husband is very strict with him, as he should be.”

In my job, I see and hear a lot of strange things, but this is throwing me for a loop. “But you can’t ask him to come out?”

She gives a wide-eyed look. “Of course not. I’m his mother. A mother scolding or bossing her son emasculates him.”

I nearly choke on my own shock and appall. Swallowing hard, I close my eyes, wishing myself out of this situation. I’m not the right person for this job. “Can I ask him to come out of there?” I ask.

“Sweetie,” she calls in a cajoling tone. “Would you like to come out and have a snack?”

“No,” Aiden yells as he crawls further under the house.

She grits her teeth in a forced smile. “I really don’t want him to get close to that cat. Who knows what diseases it has?”

“Can I insist he comes out so I can work?” I ask.

She tilts her head to the side, confused. “Of course not. Only a man can tell him what to do. That’s why we homeschool him. Too many of the teachers in the public schools here are women.”

I’m not sure how she teaches him anything if she can’t scold or boss him. Maybe the husband does the homeschooling? Seems like that would be a weekend-only thing, since it’s a weekday and he’s not home with his wife and son.

There’s probably a nice, polite way to handle this situation, but I can’t come up with even one. “Aiden,” I call. “Get out of the crawl space so I can get that animal.”

Next to me, Mrs. Simms gasps. “You can’t—”

“It’s a kitten,” he yells without moving. “Not some animal.”

“Okay, then,” I say. “I guess I’ll be going.” I’m not going anywhere, because I’m not going to live with that animal on my conscience if Mr. Simms gets home and shoots it. But, as the mother of a four-year-old, I know a thing or two about manipulating kids.

“What?” Mrs. Simms says, her eyes going hazy with tears. “You can’t leave.”

I’ve reached the end of my patience, and it’s never very long to begin with.

“I don’t get paid to stand around and not do my job, Mrs. Simms. Procedure is to leave a trap, but you’ve said you don’t want that.

I was willing to break that rule for this special circumstance, but until you remove your child from the crawl space, I can’t do that either.

If you change your mind, you’re welcome to call my office and request someone else to come out.

Maybe a man you’ll allow to scold your son. ”

I stalk toward my truck as Mrs. Simms sputters in shock and anger behind me. There’s no sound from her child, so I slow my stride to give him time to rethink his behavior.

“Aiden,” Mrs. Simms says in a beseeching tone. “Don’t you want to come out and let this nice woman help the kitten? She’s going to leave if you don’t.”

“She can’t leave,” he screeches. “I’m the man of the house, and I haven’t said she can.”

My stomach roils with horror at the man this boy is being raised to become. I’m definitely going to have to warn Harper about these sorts of boys and men when she’s old enough. “Sorry, kid,” I say. “I work for the county, not for you.”

“You can’t talk to my son that way,” Mrs. Simms says, her voice raised for the first time since I met her thirty minutes ago.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m heading out, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Come back,” the kid yells. “I don’t want Dad to kill the kitty.”

Thankfully, when I turn around, the kid is scooting backward out of the crawl space. Gripping the cat carrier tight in one hand, I hurry over before he changes his mind.

I lay in the grass on my stomach and shine my flashlight into the darkness. Two bright eyes shine at me from the farthest corner. The animal doesn’t hiss or move. My heart aches for the poor little thing, alone and scared and probably hungry.

There’s no way that animal is leaving the safety of the crawl space, and I really don’t want to go in there without knowing exactly what it is. Unfortunately, there’s no other option.

No animals die on my watch, darn it.

I get up, pull on the thickest gloves I have, and get back down on the ground.

“Do you see him?” The little boy is on his knees next to me, peering under the porch.

“Yes,” I say, doing my best to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “I need you to go stand next to your mother, okay?” I glance over my shoulder at the mother, who’s frowning at me like I just told her kid Santa isn’t real. “It would be best if you both waited on the porch.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Aiden wants to see the kitten. Stop telling him what to do.”

I manage to turn my face away before I roll my eyes. People. Ugh.

It’s actually a bit of a relief to crawl into the shade under the house. The day is warm for late October, and the sun is bright and glaring.

I leave the cat carrier behind. There’s no sense trying to get the animal inside it in this tight space.

I army crawl about ten feet under the porch until I’m close enough to make out the small animal’s features with the flashlight. Definitely a kitten. It backs farther into the corner, but it doesn’t arch its back, hiss, or defend itself in any way. It might be weak from hunger or dehydration.

“It’s okay, little guy,” I say in a soothing voice.

“Did you get him?” Aiden screeches.

The kitten turns and tries to scrabble up the cinderblock foundation to get away. I’d be willing to bet that kid has terrorized this cat at least once.

“Hush,” I say in the softest voice I can manage. “No more talking.”

Aiden huffs in annoyance, but the mother soothes him in a quiet voice.

“It’s okay,” I coo to the kitten. “I’m going to take you somewhere safe and kid-free.”

I wait until the kitten stops trying to climb the wall, then reach out and grab it as gently as I can. The kitten tries to twist free, but gives up quickly. The poor thing is exhausted.

I cradle it to my chest and roll onto my back, using my heels to propel myself slowly out from under the porch.

As soon as I emerge into the daylight, Aiden shouts. “Kitty!” and lunges for the small cat on my chest.

I roll onto my side, blocking his grasping hands, and push up to a stand as fast as I can one-handed. “No touching,” I say firmly.

The boy stares up at me, his small face flushing red with anger. “I want to hold the kitten.”

“Can’t he just hold the kitten for a minute?” his mother asks. There’s barely a question in her tone.