No words hanging awkwardly in the air.
Nothing.
Her gaze dropped—and her breath caught.
A plate sat neatly centered on the welcome mat, foil tucked tightly around its edges to keep the heat in. Steam had already left a faint trace on the metal covering, proof that whatever lay beneath had been placed there not long ago. Balanced on top, held down by the slightest curve of the foil, was a folded scrap of paper.
Nettie bent, fingers trembling more than she cared to admit, and picked it up.
Three bold letters, written in a hand that was firm and unadorned, stared back at her.
Eat.
She recognized that handwriting and swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden sting at the corners of her eyes. No one had told her to eat in a long time—no one watched out forher… much less the one person she didn’t want to be around tonight or ever.
Tate.
CHAPTER 7
TATE
“You’re kidding – right?”
Tate stared at the glowing screen like it had personally insulted him. Emil’s face filled the Zoom box, smug as ever, those wire-frame glasses catching the lamplight in his pristine office. Tate, meanwhile, sat in his darkened living room, slouched on the couch, one knee bouncing furiously. He had half a mind to shut the laptop and end this ridiculous session then and there.
“That is the dumbest, most asinine thing I’ve ever heard, Emil,” Tate snapped, leaning forward as though sheer force of glare could burn through pixels and smack the toupee off the man’s head. “What exactly would getting a needy fleabag do for me that this discussion isn’t already supposed to be doing?”
Emil didn’t flinch. Of course, he didn’t. He was annoyingly good at keeping his calm. That perpetual smirk tugged at his mouth as he folded his hands neatly on the desk. “Well, for starters, it tells me if you’re a psychopath with zero ability to connect with another living creature – or not.”
The smugness radiating from his screen was enough to make Tate grind his teeth. He was already keyed up, frustration simmering in his veins. Two weeks. Two entire weeks since he’dleft the yarn on Nettie’s porch, and still not so much as a text or a thank-you. Two days since he left that plate of food. Nothing but silence. Silence and avoidance. And it gnawed at him worse than Emil’s smirk.
“Cats,” Tate barked, throwing up his hands. “Cats are feral, ornery, hard-headed little things that don’t connect with anyone because they don’t need—” He stopped mid-rant, realization clicking into place. His eyes narrowed on Emil… who smiled.
“Oh – well, I see.”
Emil’s smile widened. “Precisely.”
“You’re saying I’m hard-headed?”
“I was leaning more toward ‘feral,’ but sure, let’s go with both.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be,” Emil replied, smooth as glass. “But I would like you to adopt a pet as soon as humanly possible—bond with it. Learn something from the process. Then we can use that as a discussion point since you still refuse to talk about the other ‘thing’ you are hiding from me.”
“There was no ‘thing,’” Tate shot back immediately.
“There was. You’re simply not ready to admit it yet.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Perhaps,” Emil allowed with a shrug. “But I expect to see an animal next session. Tuesday.”
“Nope. I have a game.”
“Mike said you don’t. Tuesday at five.”
Okay – that was going to be really frustrating if he was close enough to Coach Côte to know their scheduled games and practices.
