"Get out."
Iris's voice cuts through his bluster like a knife. She's standing very straight, her jaw set, and there's something in her eyes I've never seen before—a cold fury that makes even Jean-Pierre take a step back.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Get out of our house. Right now."
"This is hardly your house, young lady. The ownership is still under dispute—"
"The ownership is settled. The will was legally executed by a certified notaire. Your lawyer can contest all he wants, but until a court says otherwise, this property belongs to Cat and me." She steps closer to him, and I see him actually flinch. "So get out. Before I call the police."
For a long moment, nobody moves. Then Jean-Pierre makes a sound of disgust and turns toward the door.
"You'll hear from my lawyer," he says.
"I'm sure we will. Make sure he knocks next time."
The door slams behind him. The car engine starts, and the expensive sedan disappears down the drive in a cloud of dust.
Iris is still standing with her back to me, her shoulders heaving slightly.
"That was—" I start.
"I'm sorry." She turns, and her face is pale. "I shouldn't have—"
"That was incredible."
She blinks. "What?"
"You just... you told him off. With like, actual murder in your eyes." I'm grinning despite myself. "It was the hottest thing I've ever seen."
The words are out before I can stop them. I see Iris's eyes widen, see the color rise in her cheeks.
"I mean—" I scramble to recover. "It was impressive. You were very—bossy."
"Bossy."
"In charge. In a good way. Intense." Every word is making it worse. "Fired up. Scary-hot."
"Cat." She's looking at me with an expression I can't read. "Did you just call me scary-hot?"
The ground should open up and swallow me. That would be the merciful option.
"As a compliment," I say weakly. "A totally normal compliment."
"Is there a totally normal compliment that involves calling someone scary-hot?"
"Look, I'm sorry, I'm tired and I say stupid things when I'm tired, and—"
"It's fine." She holds up a hand. "Let's just... forget about it."
"Right. Forgotten. Never happened."
We stand in the kitchen, not looking at each other, both of us pretending the air isn't humming.
Neither of us mentions the village. The day off, the long lunch somewhere that isn't here—it evaporates without a word, like we both already know we'd never survive two hours across a table from each other right now.
"I'm going to run," Iris says finally. "Jacques will be by after. For the irrigation."
