“Why do you argue so much?” he countered openly.
“I’m not.”
“It sounds like it from where I’m sitting.”
“Then stand up,” she hissed, too flustered to think of anything better. “I’ve got things to do, and you are dragging this out much too long. Can you just go grab a stick and slap something to get whatever this is out of your system? Isn’t that what hockey players do?”
“I guess you’ll see at the next game with Gina.” His chuckle was velvet-warm in her ear.
Nettie paused, pulse skipping.
“I’ll text you later,” he added.
“Sure.”
The line clicked off. Nettie stood in the semi-darkness, staring at the kitten now glaring at her from the couch with the same unimpressed expression she could practically feel radiating off Tate whenever she argued with him.
The kitten hissed at her - again.
“Oh great,” she muttered. “Apparently, there’s two of you.”
It took less than ten minutes for Nettie to lose her heart to Mulligan.
The kitten was a whirlwind of contradictions—tiny and helpless one moment, then spitting out mock growls as if he were a lion disguised in soft stripes and fuzz. His ears flicked back in mock ferocity, his little jaw snapping toward her fingers whenever she tried to stroke him. Nettie giggled despite herself, because instead of delivering the bite he threatened, Mulligan leaned in with a rumbling purr, pressing his head into her palm like he’d been waiting his whole short life to be loved.
And oh, that tail of his. It twitched like a pendulum whenever food appeared, his back paws prancing in place as though the joy inside him could only escape through movement. Each bite was a celebration, his entire body too full of delight to stay still.
He was fearless, too—utterly without hesitation.
“Oh mercy,” Nettie whispered under her breath as the kitten launched himself at her jeans, claws pricking just enough to announce his ascent. In seconds, he had scaled her thigh, scrambled onto her lap, and shoved his face against her sweater with triumphant purrs.
If she leaned on the counter, Mulligan found the kitchen towel and used it as a makeshift ladder, dangling halfway up with his tiny claws while glaring at her as if to say,‘Well, aren’t you going to help me the rest of the way?’
Her heart melted, puddled, and then promptly drowned in affection. How could such a small creature demand so much love with so little effort?
And all the while, Tate’s house surprised her.
From the outside, it was unremarkable—dark, quiet, a place you’d assume belonged to a man who kept to himself. But inside? It was alive with light. The setting sun poured in through windows and glass doors, but more than that, there was an atrium. Nettie had stopped short at the sight of it—a tree growing right in the middle of the house, stretching up toward the skylights, surrounded by a neat ring of greenery. A birdbath stood beneath the branches, gleaming with water, and a feeder hung nearby, proof that Tate welcomed visitors with feathers and wings.
The kitchen glimmered with white granite veined in deep grays and blacks, the counters polished smooth. The cabinets were works of art themselves, whitewashed wood carved and woodburned with scenes of cowboys, wild horses, and longhorns—the very essence of Texas etched into everyday life. The fireplace stood pristine, untouched, its Austin stone gleaming pale and unblemished, as though it had never known ash or flame. Everywhere she turned, there was something unexpected. Something that didn’t fit the quiet, gruff Tate she remembered.
But it was the hallway that stopped her breath.
Rows of books stretched along both walls, spines worn, titles varied. Fiction. History. Poetry. Self-improvement books. He had always seemed so private, so cut off, yet here was a man who filled his silence with words. Nettie’s hand brushed the edges of the shelves as she drifted down the hallway until her gaze snagged on a desk tucked against the far wall. A single frame rested on it. Tilted forward.
Without thinking, she reached out and straightened it.
And froze.
It was a photo—one she hadn’t seen in years. The three of them. Tate, Gina, and her, all teenagers at Christmastime. She gasped softly, her stomach flipping in disbelief as she recognized not just the image, but the frame itself.
That Christmas.
They had decided to exchange homemade gifts, and everyone had agreed on picture frames. Tate had grumbled endlessly, muttering about hot glue burns and how stupid the whole idea was. Gina had gone the simple route, painting hers with cheerful colors. Nettie still had the painted frame at home, tucked away. She remembered Tate giving his handmade one to his sister, never sparing a thought for hers.
But here it was.
Tate had kept it.
