“Bring the cats with you. It’ll make you happy and it’ll be the puuuuuuuuurfect opportunity for me to see what it’s like to have one as a pet. I’m going to build a room for them anyway, so save yourself the trouble and listen to your stubborn princess.”
Art silences me with a greedy kiss. I’m caught unaware and stumble a few steps backward into the wall. Peppermint or Cinnamon, I’m not sure which one, hisses at us, jumping out of the way just in the nick of time.
Art smells so good, like a mixture of brown sugar, honey, and cinnamon. My arms wrap themselves around his neck, playing with the curly ends of his hair. It’s grown out over the last two weeks. His cheeks, however, are nice and smooth. He’s shaved. For once I don’t feel all the scratchiness of his beard. I like it much better this way.
“You. Are. Brilliant,” he breathes between kisses.
I giggle. “I would’ve told you to bring the cats over sooner if I’d known this was the type of reaction I’d get.”
“It’s a big ask. Not everyone would be as willing and open-minded as you.”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m not just any person. I’m Alice.”
We stay glued to one another until the timer dings and Art shuffles over to the oven to rescue the tray of quiches. As he puts on the oven mitts and places the tray to cool on the folding table, I marvel at just how relaxed he looks. He carries himself with a lightness. There are a few creases near the folds of his eyes and around his mouth from smiling. He’s happy, and it’s the first time I’ve truly been able to appreciate how it makes him look ten times more handsome. I wish he’d let the mask he normally dons slip away and always stay like this.
“Ali, would you mind grabbing the hamper that’s on the ironing board?”
“Oh, um, sure.” I snap out of creepy staring mode and focus on the wicker basket.
“We’ll eat over there.” He nods toward a red-and-white checkered blanket occupied by the cats. “Just keep the lid closed until I have sometreats ready for Peppermint and Cinnamon, otherwise, they’ll try and steal some of the chicken for themselves.”
“Have they done that before?”
“Uh-huh. Those two will eat anything given the opportunity.”
“I guess it just shows they have good taste. Although, I’ve never heard of a cat stealing human food. Dogs, yes. Cats, no.”
I sit down on the ground and guard the basket. Cinnamon comes over to sniff and investigate the lid.
“Does Lillian beg for table scraps?” Art asks, reaching up to the top shelf of the cabinet.
“Not with me, but if she’s around her brother and sisters, yes. My cousin David is the worst offender. The dogs know it too, so they tend to crowd around where he sits. It’s gotten so bad that Clara had to ban the dogs from the kitchen. So now when it’s mealtimes, they get crated.”
Art chuckles and shakes the bag of treats he’s retrieved. I watch as the felines’ ears preen and they run over to him like a couple of hungry lions, stretching up onto their hind legs to try and reach the item in his hand. They meow loud and mighty.
“Sit,” he calls out in a commanding voice.
Miraculously, Peppermint and Cinnamon obey. Their eyes remain glued on him. He opens the bag and sprinkles a handful of what I assume to be freeze-dried meat chunks into two bowls. They wait for him to set them on the floor before they each run over to the dishes and begin to eat. Felines occupied, Art is free to carry the remaining hamper and quiches over to join me.
“Mademoiselle, lunch is served.” While I load up my plate, Art dims the lights with an app on his phone and clicks on some soft classical music. “This may not be a proper picnic, but it’s the next best thing.”
I peck him on the cheek. “Thank you for going to so much trouble for me.”
“You’re worth any price.”
Swoon.Move over Eric, Alfie, and every other man out there, because none of them can compare to the thoughtfulness and generosity of this man. I’m more determined than ever for him to become my boyfriend, and nothing is going to stand in my way.
Twenty-Four
“Hello?” My voice comes out groggy.
“Good morning, sunshine, this is your conscience telling you it’s time to rise and shine,” my brother’s deep voice jokes.
“Eddie,” I whine. “Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s four-thirty,” he snarks back. “You wake up at five to work in the stables anyway. Waking up half an hour early won’t kill you.”
“I need my beauty sleep. Especially on a Saturday.” I groan, half tempted to hang up on him. “What do you need?”
