“Good.” Chrissy claps her hands together. “Now that that’s all out of the way, let’s go inside. The food’s going to get cold and this baby is hungry.”
“Meow!”
I turn toward the pretty gray tabby on the cat tower. “Hey, gorgeous,” I say softly, reaching a hand out?—
Then freezing when the rest of the occupants of the kitchen yell, “No!”
“Um,” I begin.
Chrissy takes a step toward me. “Joan of Freaking Arc. My cat,” she explains when my brows drag together. “She’s not, well…nice.”
But even as she says that, a furry head rubs against my still outstretched hand.
Then the soft rumble of a purr.
I lightly stroke her head then grunt when she launches herself from the cat tower and into my arms. Holding her carefully, I turn back to the others, the remains of the dinner—pizza and pasta from a local Italian place named Mario’s—littered on the huge island.
Bar stools are pushed back, half-full glasses of wine are dotted around.
Cats and dogs run underfoot, visitors from Rory and Chrissy’s animal rescues, and Tiff, Jean-Michel’s other half, who arrived late from her job, is just diving into a plate he made up for her.
An ice cream cake—Chrissy’s craving today—is thawing on the counter, and I think that could take a solid hour and I would still be too full for a slice.
I’ll still eat one anyway—because I’ve never had this special concoction from Molly’s.
And it looks fucking incredible.
But none of that explains why the entire kitchen full of people is now looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.
Rome is the first to break out of his shock.
He chuckles and shakes his head, muttering, “Joan of Freaking Arc.”
“I don’t get it,” I say, stroking a hand through her soft fur.
“She’s surly and will bite your head off if you move wrong,” King explains.
I glance down at the ball of fluff in my arms. Joan stares up at me through half-slit eyes, her purrs vibrating through my chest. “Surly?” I ask disbelievingly.
“With those she judges as unworthy,” Marie says, coming close to my side and reaching forward to scratch the cat. “Which clearly”—a pointed look up at me—“you are not.”
I touch her cheek. “And neither are you.”
A sigh has my head jerking up, Joan’s purring faltering for a moment.
Chrissy’s smiling at us, and the looks of murder the guys have been wearing all night have evened out. But it’s Jean-Michel’s expression that’s changed the most.
He nods at me, approval evident.
“Meow?”
I look down at Joan. “Did I stop scratching you?”
“Meow.”
We all laugh. I go back to scratching, earning that persistent purring for several minutes before Joan decides she’s had enough. Her teeth, sharp pinpricks of bright white canines, press lightly into my hand.
“Yes, darling?” I ask her.
