I follow behind them as my mother chatters away, asking Aric about his classes, his runeball team, and his family.
He answers each question easily—I should’ve known he’d have no trouble chatting with her; he’s confident like that—and I can see Mama warming to him with every word.
After we chat for a while, Mama brings us tea, then vanishes into the back to ice the cinnamon rolls, leaving me and Aric alone at the table.
He casts a gaze at me, and through the steam rising from his teacup, he arches a playful brow.
My cheeks heat again. I know he does that on purpose.
“You know,” Mama says when she returns a few minutes later, setting down a platter laden with fluffy, gooey cinnamon rolls, “Poppy was such a serious child. Always had her nose in a book.” She flicks a glance at me. “I used to worry she’d never let herself have any fun.”
“Mama,” I say, trying to convince her with my eyes to not say anything embarrassing—I’ve gotplentyof stories I’d much rather Aric not hear, at least right now.
“But then,” she continues, waving my concern away witha brush of her hand, “when she was about twelve, she discovered her spells. And suddenly, everything in our house was pink. The walls, the furniture, even poor Pepper.”
Aric laughs—a warm, rumbling sound that makes my embarrassment worth it. “A pink Pepper? I wish I could’ve seen that.”
“Oh, I have drawings,” my mother says. “Poppy used to document everything in her journals. She’d carry one around everywhere she went.”
Aric looks at me pointedly, but I shake my head, my two braids flopping with the movement.
“We arenotlooking at my childhood journals,” I say firmly, but I’m smiling despite myself.
There’s a whisper of paws on stairs, and I look up to see Pepper appear at the bottom of the staircase leading up to our apartment above the café.
“Pepper!” I say, already standing.
He trots over and presses himself against my legs, then vibrates with a purr as I lift him into my arms and cuddle him against my chest.
“I’ve missed you,” I say, then place a kiss on his sleek black head, which has more silver-gray hair every time I see him.
At the table, Mama dabs her lips with a cloth and says, “Oh, I almost forgot. His appointment’s in half an hour.”
Aric exchanges a look with me. “Appointment?”
I smile. “I told you it was going to be hairy.”
AFTER FINISHING OUR CINNAMON ROLLS, we gather Pepper in his carrier. He climbs right in, well aware of wherewe’re headed. His sleek black hair gleams in the morning light as we step out of the café, and he closes his green eyes in quiet contentment as the sun shines over his face.
“I’ve never known a cat wholikesgoing to the groomer,” Aric says.
I shrug. “Pepper is very particular about his personal hygiene.”
Aric peers into the cozy carrier and nods. “I can see that. Your hair is very shiny.”
Pepper lets out a rumbly purr, and I laugh. The sound feels lighter than it has in days.
After Aric forgot about our tutoring session together, I started feeling that creeping anxiety again, like everything is teetering on the edge and one wrong move will send this beautiful new thing crashing into a million pieces. But right now, walking through the crisp autumn air with Aric, Pepper purring in his carrier between us, I feel a bit of the tension unwind from my chest.
The Velvet Pawlor sits on a quiet side street off the bustling main road through Wysteria, its purple door adorned with golden pawprints. We walk up the winding path to the salon, and then Aric holds the door open for me while I step inside.
“Welcome to the Velvet Pawlor,” the groomer—a woman with silver hair and kind brown eyes—says in greeting. When she recognizes me, her face breaks into a wide smile. “Poppy! It’s been ages!” She comes around the counter, makes as if to wrap me in a hug, then looks down at all the cat hair on her apron and decides not to. “I expected to see your mom today. How’re things at Coven Crest?”
“Good,” I say, bending to let Pepper out of his carrier. He knows this place well and treats it like a second home, already leaping up onto the velvet grooming table, purring as he stretches languidly across the pillow, waiting for his pampering session to start.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” Aric says as he steps up beside me. “He really does like it here.”
The groomer, Midge, laughs. “He’s my favorite client. And we have such great conversation too.” She walks over to scratch him behind the ear, and his purring gets louder.
