“Sweetheart,” Margo drawls, still grinning, her martini-glass earrings wobbling with delight, “rumors require imagination. We had front-row seats.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and I grip the wineglass with both hands, fully committed to emotional-support stemware. “We weren’t putting on a show.”
“Oh, honey,” Elena says, slicing into her steak with slow precision. “You were one thrust away from turning that beach into a not-safe-for-work livestream.”
Laughter ripples around the table.
Even Knox shakes his head, but he’s grinning, eyes catching mine with a look that still simmers.
A tiny chorus of mews drifts over from the playpen.
Elena pauses mid-bite. “That’s my cue.” She rises, graceful despite a fourth glass of wine, and returns a moment later with two squirmy furballs in her arms—Stripe tucked under one, Shadow under the other.
She plops back down and hands one off to Margo. “They missed us.”
“More like they smelled yummy steak,” Margo coos, nuzzling her cheek against Stripe’s fuzzy head. “If this one gets any cuter, I’m stealing him.”
Millie scoots closer for a peek. “They’re so damn adorable, I could cry.” She reaches over and scratches between Stripe’s ears. “Feels like just yesterday they were being bottle-fed.” With a contented sigh, she sinks fully back into her chair and nudges grilled veggies across her plate. “Have you two decided what you’re doing with them when summer ends?”
My fork stalls midair.
Knox’s, too.
A beat passes, weighty and quiet. His gaze brushes mine, quick but unreadable.
I manage a smile. “Haven’t really talked about that.”
Millie pops a grilled cherry tomato into her mouth, then points her fork at us. “Better decide soon. We’ve got dibs on being their favorite drunk aunt.”
“Mmhmm,” Elena chirps. “July will be over in a few blinks. August, too. Then you’ll both be packing up for the City before we know it.”
That one finds its mark.
Because it’s true.
As a kid, summer always stretched wide and endless. Lazy, like a cat in a sunbeam. Now it’s shrinking, folding in on itself like a book being closed.
And when it’s over, so is this.
The kittens.
The beach walks.
The quiet mornings and whispered nights.
Knox.
My chest tightens in that familiar, fluttery way—equal parts ache, anticipation, and something I can never quite pin down. I know the rules.Wemade them. But sitting here, surrounded by wine and mirth and a feeling that might break if I breathe too hard…I kind of hate those rules.
Paxton would be smirking right now.This doesn’t sound casual, girlie.
Knox clears his throat, slicing through my inner spiral.
“Well,” he says, setting his fork down. “They’ve got a few more bonding sessions with Wanda. Helps with the transition before adoption. Then we’ll work with their vet on the next steps.”
His timbre is steady, but I hear the muffled finality beneath it.
This isn’t only about the kittens. This is about what we’ve been pretending isn’t coming.
