"You’re fond of her." I manage to keep from smirking.
I can’t believe it. I might have found James’ Hamilton’s weakness. Cats. Or rather one particular kitten.
His shoulders stiffen. "We tolerate each other."
"She attacked you when you rescued her, and you still brought her home."
"I would have had to be completely heartless to have left her there." And yet, isn't that the image he portrays?
"You could have taken her to a shelter," I point out.
"That was the plan." He rubs the back of his neck. "She grew on me." He looks at where Malice has already wiped her food bowl clean and is lapping up the water from the fountain. "Like a fungus." He scowls.
But his tone is, dare I say, half affectionate, half frustrated.
He’s a goner, and he doesn’t even realize it.
I begin to chuckle, then turn it into a cough.
He arches an eyebrow at me. "You have something to say?"
"Moi? Of course, not." I pull off the hair tie holding up my hair. I sigh as the pressure eases from my crown.
Malice finishes cleaning herself, then pads toward the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors. There's a cat flap installed directly into the glass; custom-cut, seamless, probably cost a fortune to have professionally fitted without compromising the door's integrity.
She nudges through it onto the balcony beyond.
I follow, curious, and stop short.
The balcony has been cat-proofed.
Fine mesh netting extends from floor to ceiling, nearly invisible unless you're looking for it, enclosing the entire space. It's secured to the railings and overhead with professional-grade mounting, strong enough to stop a cat from jumping or climbing out. It’s subtle enough not to ruin the view of the park.
There's a cat tree in the corner. Not some cheap carpeted monstrosity, but a sleek wooden structure that looks like an actual tree with multiple platforms at different heights. A heating pad sits on one level, currently off but within reach of an outlet. A few toys are scattered strategically—a feather wand, some crinkle balls, a mouse that's seen better days.
Malice leaps onto the middle platform and settles into a sphinx position, looking out over London like she owns it.
"Whoa, you cat-proofed your balcony."
"Cats can fall." James, who’s followed me, stands with his arms crossed. Defensive. "Fifteen floors up, she wouldn't survive it."
"So, you had custom netting installed. And a cat flap cut into glass doors that probably cost thousands. And a heated bed for when it gets cold."
"She's an indoor cat. She needs enrichment." He bristles.
I turn to look at him. Really look at him.
The Ice Commander. The perfectionist chef who terrorizes his kitchen. The man who prefers grunts to speaking full sentences. He spent a fortune making sure his rescue cat would be safe and comfortable.
"What?" He shifts uncomfortably under my gaze.
"Nothing. I just—" I shake my head. "I didn't know this side of you existed."
He looks at me with a weird expression "It's just a cat."
"And this apartment is worth at least a million pounds."
"Multi-million, actually, but continue." He stuffs a hand in his pocket. His bearing is straight, but his hunched shoulders indicate he’s far from comfortable with this conversation.
