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Meanwhile, Gage’s gaze travels slowly over the crime scene. My bare feet are propped on his coffee table. Not the ottoman. Four glasses sit there: water, iced coffee, hot coffee, and the dregs of the cranberry juice I found in his refrigerator. None of them on coasters, despite the absurd little stack nearby.

Crumbs litter the table. And the couch. On a paper towel beside my thigh sit the half-eaten remains of a vanilla cream puff. Judging by his daggered glare, Gage had other intentions for it.

He draws in a long breath through his nose. “I need a lobotomy.”

“Bit dramatic,” I chirp.

“And you need a straitjacket.” He jabs a finger at me, then at the pastry. “You are eating the cream puff.”

“And?”

Oh, I’m evil. I dip a finger in the cream, then make a cinematic and very seductive show of sucking it.

His eyes close. For one glorious second, I think he might be praying. When they reopen, he addresses the ceiling. “Why?”

“It was just sitting there so pretty in the fridge.”

His hands curl into fists, then uncurl. “Of course it was pretty. It was chilling. In preparation for a filming session, Jubilee.”

“Oh.” I consider but take another bite. “Do you want me to regurgitate it for you?”

Now, I see his ears turning red. I continue to play with death. “Well, now the cameras have caught me eating it, which is far more entertaining. Your audience will go wild.”

They really would lose their minds—if he ever bothers to announce me. I can neither confirm nor deny if my antics have contributed to the delay.

Instead, Gage has decided to torture five million strangers one clue at a time.

The first week, he gave them the six emojis. On day eight, he made me Cherries Jubilee. A museum-quality display. He photographed it before I destroyed it and posted exactly one picture. No caption. No explanation. Just Cherries Jubilee.

His comments became unusable for six hours.

Two days later, he posted velvet bows beside cat collars with the caption: I’ve become quite skilled in the art of bow etiquette. Half his subscribers assumed Halloween cat portraits. The other half decided was a real woman and he was soft-launching a relationship. A few somehow landed on second bakery opening.

I almost felt bad for them.

I wasn’t kidding about the fairy lights either. Fall garland has also invaded the place. He posted one photo…and a single caption: For the record, this was not my idea.

The internet immediately blamed Princess Emoji. Correctly. It’s becoming my favorite social experiment. Almost as entertaining as tormenting Gage.

That started innocently enough. I was bored. The carriage house is beautiful, but conversations with only Marzipan became concerning. Also, there are five other cats over here. And Gage. Not necessarily in that order.

So I started wandering over earlier. By the time I’m conscious, he’s already fed six cats, checked the chickens, chopped firewood—because he said “central heating is for cowards”—worked out, showered, answered emails, and done pastry-related stuff involving lamination or proofing.

Offensive, right?

One afternoon, I found him in the gym. I didn’t interrupt. I’m reckless, not suicidal. I simply lurked, suddenly very on board with “morning worship”. He finished his set, turned around, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

After that, I started popping up in random places. Never while he was holding knives. Survival instincts.

Three days ago, I hid behind the pantry door as he worked at the kitchen island, an enormous glass bowl beside him holding a sourdough he’d been nurturing longer than several of my relationships.

“Boo.”

Gage jerked. The bowl slipped. Glass exploded across the floor. His reaction aged me six years.

“Oh, my God.” I slapped both hands over my mouth. “Gage, I am so sorry.”

His eye twitched. “Do. Not. Move.”