“And she seems to be enjoying it. Who am I to intervene?”
“Don’t just stand there. Help me.”
“This is your mission. I’m supervisory.”
“She’s stealing from your cat.”
“Damien steals from me all the time. Circle of life.”
I lunge. The cat bolts. I skid on the tile and grab the edge of the counter, and she darts behind the trash can. Brody steps sideways, blocking her exit with annoyingly quick reflexes, and she reverses into a corner. I scoop her up. She yowls. Fur gets in my mouth, claws catch in my tank top, and for one terrible second, I’m holding a screaming cloud.
“Got her,” I pant. “This is insane. My entire evening has gone insane.”
“Mine’s improved dramatically.” With a grin, he grabs his keys from the hall table. “Come on. I’ll walk with you to Mrs. Nepine’s. Make sure you deliver the right animal to the right house.”
“You don’t trust me?”
He chuckles. “My confidence in your judgment is at an all-time low.”
A furious yowl comes from down the hall, followed by what sounds like a paw being shoved dramatically under a door.
Brody winces. “Right. I should probably release the actual owner of the stolen dinner before he calls a lawyer.”
He disappears down the hall and opens the bathroom door. Damien shoots out like a white cannonball, tail high, dignity shredded, and gives me one murderous look before stalking straight into the kitchen to inspect the crime scene.
“Sorry,” I tell him, tightening my hold on the other cat. “This feels personal now.”
Damien answers with a sharp meow that sounds a lot like a threat.
Brody points toward the front door. “Go. I’ll keep him inside before we end up with a street fight between two decorative pillows.”
I hurry out with the fugitive tucked against my chest, calmer now that she’s full of stolen food. The night air washes over my face as Brody pulls the door mostly closed behind us, Damien still yowling.
The street is silent and dark, lit only by amber lights, and the breeze carries the scent of honeysuckle from a garden two doors down, jasmine from the planters along the curb, and underneath all of it, Brody. Salted caramel and hickory wood. Faint but present, threading through the night air every time the breeze flutters past, and I find myself drifting closer without meaning to. I tell myself it’s the narrow footpath, the cat shifting in my arms, anything except the way some quiet, needy part of me keeps trying to follow him like his scent knows a place inside me I haven’t given it permission to touch.
Our arms brush, and my skin flares warmly at the contact.
I steal a glance his way. In the lamplight, his jaw catches shadow and his eyes are darker than I’ve seen them, focused and quiet in a way that’s completely different from the man who dances shirtless in his kitchen. On camera, he’s bright, chaotic, all performance and grin. Out here, walking beside me in the dark, he’s still, and that stillness does something reckless to me. It fills the space between us until I’m too aware of his height, his hands, the slow swing of his arm beside mine, and the solid heat of him close enough to touch.
It should make me nervous.
It does.
But not in the way I expect.
This isn’t the tight-chested panic I know too well. This is lower, sensual, stranger. Every inch of me wants to step closer just to see what he’d do.
He catches me looking. The corner of his mouth lifts, but he doesn’t call me out, which is generous of him and devastating in equal measure.
We reach Mrs. Nepine’s house at the end of the block, a neat little cottage with white shutters, a rose garden, and a porch light glowing over a front door painted pale blue. Each stepping stone on the path is perfectly spaced between clipped lavender bushes.
Number forty-seven. I ring the bell.
The door opens to a woman in her seventies, silver hair in a tight bun, quilted dressing gown, reading glasses on a chain. She takes one look at the cat in my arms and gasps.
“Princess Anastasia Snowdrop! Oh, my darling baby, what have they done to you?” She snatches the cat from me and cradles her against her chest, examining her fur for damage as if I’d taken her on some kind of wilderness expedition.
“She got out,” I say. “I found her on my porch.”
