This is an excerpt from my sweet romantic comedy, Her One-Night Prince. And yes, it involves a mouse.
Lydia found the mouse almost immediately, and they spent the next half hour trying to trap it. Lydia would direct it with the broom, and Mitch would upend the bucket on top of it. At least that was the plan. They were fast, but the mouse was faster.
“What the hell kind of rodent is that, turbo mouse?” Mitch asked, wiping his wrist across his brow, sweaty from chasing a stupid mouse. He needed to get back to the gym.
Robert sat, stony-faced, in his wheelchair as he watched their antics, but Mitch detected a slight grin on the old man’s face.
Lydia squatted beside the kitchen door, looking more than a little frustrated. The mouse darted out in front of her, running across her shoe. Lydia squealed and leaped into Mitch’s arms.
“I thought you said you weren’t afraid of mice?” he accused with a laugh, disappointed when she pulled out of his arms.
“I’m afraid of anything that runs across my foot like that.”
It was time to liven things up. Mitch stalked across the room in exaggerated tiptoe. “Crikey, mate,” he drawled in an overstated Aussie whisper. “I am the infamous mouse hunta, tracking a very dangerous species of rodent called”—he dropped his voice even further—“the kitchen mouse.”
Lydia giggled as she followed him with the broom.
“We must be very, very cayaful. Oh!” He spotted the mouse behind the wastepaper basket under the desk. “There’s the little rascal right thaya.” With his free hand, he motioned for Lydia to step in front of him. “We must proceed with extreme caution, or else our little mousie will get away.”
Lydia poked him in the shoulder with the broom handle as she neared their target. “Poor Steve Irwin would turn over in his grave if he heard that lame imitation of him,” she whispered. Carefully, she pushed the broom across the floor toward the cowering mouse.
Mitch approached from the other side with the bucket.
“Careful. Don’t let it get away,” she whispered, “mate.”
“I’m just the trapper, sweetheart,” he said in his normal voice. “It’s your job to make sure it doesn’t get away.”
“Oh, the poor thing is petrified. It’s okay,” she cooed at the furry little beast. “Isn’t he cute?”
“It’s a mouse, Lydia.”
“That’s such a man comment.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t meant as one.” She pushed with the broom. “Now! Get it!”
He slammed the overturned bucket to the floor and held it there. He looked at Lydia. She looked at him. They burst out laughing. They slid to the floor, backs against the cabinets.
When he’d caught his breath, he asked, “Did we really just spend the last”—he glanced at his watch—“forty-two minutes chasing a mouse?”
“What the hell kind of rodent is that, turbo mouse?” Mitch asked, wiping his wrist across his brow, sweaty from chasing a stupid mouse. He needed to get back to the gym.
Robert sat, stony-faced, in his wheelchair as he watched their antics, but Mitch detected a slight grin on the old man’s face.
Lydia squatted beside the kitchen door, looking more than a little frustrated. The mouse darted out in front of her, running across her shoe. Lydia squealed and leaped into Mitch’s arms.
“I thought you said you weren’t afraid of mice?” he accused with a laugh, disappointed when she pulled out of his arms.
“I’m afraid of anything that runs across my foot like that.”
It was time to liven things up. Mitch stalked across the room in exaggerated tiptoe. “Crikey, mate,” he drawled in an overstated Aussie whisper. “I am the infamous mouse hunta, tracking a very dangerous species of rodent called”—he dropped his voice even further—“the kitchen mouse.”
Lydia giggled as she followed him with the broom.
“We must be very, very cayaful. Oh!” He spotted the mouse behind the wastepaper basket under the desk. “There’s the little rascal right thaya.” With his free hand, he motioned for Lydia to step in front of him. “We must proceed with extreme caution, or else our little mousie will get away.”
Lydia poked him in the shoulder with the broom handle as she neared their target. “Poor Steve Irwin would turn over in his grave if he heard that lame imitation of him,” she whispered. Carefully, she pushed the broom across the floor toward the cowering mouse.
Mitch approached from the other side with the bucket.
“Careful. Don’t let it get away,” she whispered, “mate.”
“I’m just the trapper, sweetheart,” he said in his normal voice. “It’s your job to make sure it doesn’t get away.”
“Oh, the poor thing is petrified. It’s okay,” she cooed at the furry little beast. “Isn’t he cute?”
“It’s a mouse, Lydia.”
“That’s such a man comment.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t meant as one.” She pushed with the broom. “Now! Get it!”
He slammed the overturned bucket to the floor and held it there. He looked at Lydia. She looked at him. They burst out laughing. They slid to the floor, backs against the cabinets.
When he’d caught his breath, he asked, “Did we really just spend the last”—he glanced at his watch—“forty-two minutes chasing a mouse?”
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