Abernathy leapt off the bed and trotted out of the room. I followed, rubbing my eyes. He stopped outside Irina’s guest room, turned his head towards me and scratched noisily at the door.
“Stop that!” I hissed. “You can’t go and harass her, she’s asleep!”
Abernathy ignored me utterly, in that haughty way cats have, and continued to scratch. I stifled a groan and leaned down to scoop him up. He wailed shrilly until I dropped him.
“What is wrong with you?”
The door opened a crack, and in the darkness, I could just make out the outline of Irina, hair mussed and T-shirt skimming her thighs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to?—”
Abernathy yowled, shoving his head through the crack. His fat body couldn’t quite fit, though.
“It’s alright,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Who wants me? You, or the cat?”
“The … the cat,” I stammered, face burning. “I tried to carry him away, but?—”
“He can come in. We’ll probably all get better sleep that way.” She opened the door wider, and Abernathy scurried inside.
“See you in the morning, Henry. Unless you want to sleep in here too?” She grinned lazily in my general direction.
“Three is probably a crowd,” I muttered, my stomach flipping. “Good night, you two.”
“G’night,” she slurred, turning away but leaving the door ajar slightly. I stood there like a fool, listening to the rustling sounds as she settled back under the covers, and then the loud rumble of Abs’ purr.
I returned to my room and burrowed under the blankets. That sharp feeling just under my ribs … that wasn’t jealousy.
I wasn’t jealous of my own cat.
BREAKING NEWS: RECENTLY-MADE BILLIONAIRE REPORTEDLY OFF THE MARKET!
Exclusive photographs obtained by TechRaker journalists show Henry Baxter, app developer extraordinaire, escorting his bride home to their yacht in the early hours of Easter Saturday.
TechRaker believes the pair may have been married for several weeks, but have been keeping a low profile while Baxter and his business partner, Atlas Prideaux, settled the final business dealings with the mystery investor who boosted Tickle’s value into the multiple billions of dollars.
Perhaps they’re finally ready to come clean, with both sporting seriously bling wedding bands as they returned to Rushcutters Bay from a mystery flight in Baxter’s private jet.
No further news on the identity of the new Mrs Baxter is forthcoming, but we at TechRaker eagerly await her next Tickle post.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Trad Wife Dreams
HENRY
Iwoke groggily to clattering sounds coming from the kitchen and a feminine curse. In Romanian. Rubbing sleep from my eyes and fumbling for my glasses, I squinted at the clock beside the bed. Eight am.
Stumbling out of bed, I almost tripped over Trinket, who meowed with such horrified entitlement that I wondered if the crew had forgotten to give her dinner the night before.
“Sorry, Trink,” I mumbled, rubbing my neck and stretching. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”
With Trinket on my heels, we headed out into the living room. A cupboard door banged, and Irina’s voice wafted from the kitchen.
“Seriously? What the fuck even is caster sugar anyway?Zaharul este zahar al naibii!”
I stifled a grin at her angry Romanian, taking the last few steps to the island bench. She was on tiptoes, peering into a high cupboard. The T-shirt she’d slept in the night before barely covered her backside. I watched her for longer than was appropriate before I cleared my throat.
“Morning.”
Irina squawked, leapt a foot in the air and clutched at her chest. “Henry! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
