That weak smile of Whit's morphed quickly into an expression of discontent at Phillip's whole posture and look. "Don't look so smug, for God's sake. I'm not here for whatever you're thinking," she snapped moodily, moving inside. This – whatever it had always been between them, attraction that refused to die for good or just simply insanity – had always had a pattern to it and she knew what he was thinking, that somehow she was beginning to come around to his side of things.
Setting her bag on an end table, she folded her arms across her chest, waiting for him to sit down. Her preoccupation was so great by this point that she hadn't even turned in the direction of Phillip's dining room table. A low merow greeted her as Vixen leap up on the back of a chair, eyed Whit for a moment in a way that she could only label as a reprimand, then butted her head against Whit's abdomen.
The way Whit jumped away from the touch would have almost been comical under other circumstances.