She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it as Mr. Darcy lets out another pitiful sound. The cat is clearly weakening, his grip on the branch becoming more precarious with each passing minute.
"This is insane," she mutters, but she steps back to give me room.
"Completely insane," I agree, grabbing the lowest branch I can reach and testing its strength.
The bark is rough and cold under my hands, made slippery by the snow that's continuing to fall. I pull myself up, feeling the branch flex under my weight but hold steady. The next branch is easier to reach, and then the next, until I'm climbing steadily toward the terrified cat.
"Be careful," Savannah calls from below, and despite everything that's happened between us today, I can hear genuine concern in her voice.
Mr. Darcy watches my approach with wide yellow eyes, pressing himself against the trunk as I get closer. He's shivering violently, his orange fur matted with snow, and when I reach for him, he hisses but doesn't try to scratch.
"Easy, boy," I murmur, gathering him against my chest with one hand while maintaining my grip on the branch with the other. "Let's get you down from here."
The descent is trickier with a cat in one hand, especially when Mr. Darcy decides to dig his claws into my flannel shirt forsecurity. But I make it down without incident, dropping the last few feet to land heavily in the snow.
"You got him," Savannah says, and there's something soft in her voice that makes me look up sharply.
She's standing close enough that I can see the relief in her brown eyes, the way her vanilla bourbon scent has shifted from sharp distress to something warmer. For a moment, the tension between us dissolves into shared concern for the small, frightened creature in my arms.
Mr. Darcy is purring now, a rusty motor sound that vibrates against my chest. He's warming up quickly, his fur starting to dry and fluff out properly.
"We should get him back to Mrs. Patterson," I say, and Savannah nods.
"She lives just down the hill," she tells me, pointing toward a cluster of houses visible through the trees. “It’s not far from here.”
We head to the car with Mr. Darcy in my arms like some kind of feline royalty. Then, Savannah holds him in the back, for the short drive.
Mrs. Patterson's house is a small Victorian cottage painted cheerful yellow, with a wraparound porch and flower boxes that are currently buried under snow.
"Mrs. Patterson!" Savannah calls as we approach the front door. "We found Mr. Darcy!"
The door flies open before we can knock, revealing a small, elderly woman with silver hair and worried eyes that immediately light up at the sight of her cat.
"Oh, thank heavens!" she exclaims, reaching for Mr. Darcy with obvious relief. "I've been looking everywhere for him. He must have gotten out when I brought in the groceries."
Mr. Darcy purrs louder as he's transferred to his owner's arms, clearly happy to be home and warm again.
"Logan climbed up a tree to get him down," Savannah explains, and I catch the note of something that might be pride in her voice.
"A tree?" Mrs. Patterson looks at me with new respect. "How wonderfully heroic of you, dear. You must both come in for hot chocolate. It's the least I can do."
"That's not necessary," I start, but Savannah surprises me by accepting.
"That sounds lovely, Mrs. Patterson. Thank you."
And as we follow her into her cat-filled house, I catch Savannah looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. Something has shifted between us during the rescue, some small crack in the wall she's built around her heart.
Maybe it's enough to build on.
17
SAVANNAH
"You're a big hero, aren't you?" I say as Logan starts the jeep, my voice dripping with enough sarcasm to fill a small lake.
Because apparently watching a man climb a tree to rescue a cat is my kryptonite. Who knew? I thought my weakness was men in suits with good credit scores, but turns out it is actually men who risk life and limb for geriatric felines. My ovaries are basically doing a standing ovation right now, which is ridiculous considering I am supposed to be focused on wedding planning, not lumberjack cosplay. The guest list is already multiplying like rabbits and here I am, getting distracted by tree-climbing heroics.
Logan's hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white against the black leather. "No," he says quietly, his voice raw with something I do not want to identify because it sounds too much like regret. "I'm a jerk who broke your heart."
