Page 57

Eclair blinks at me, somehow managing to be calculating. I inch my fingers toward her. “Respect.” No hissing this time.

I rise and finally take in the house. Dark wood floors stretch beneath exposed timber beams, somehow making the enormous space feel inviting. A sculptural black-and-wood staircase climbs toward an open second-floor gallery. Straight ahead, towering windows rise beneath a vaulted ceiling. To one side, a massive stone fireplace warms the living room built around it. To the other, the kitchen.

My mouth actually falls open. Gage wears that stupid smirk again.

“Oh, fuck you.” I poke his chest.

His brows rise. “We’ve been home thirty seconds.”

“Oooh, that kitchen.”

A grin spreads beneath his beard. “You want to fuck me in the kitchen?”

I grab his arm and tug. “Come on.”

He’s laughing as I drag him through the open space, my fingertips skimming one of the thick timber columns. The cats follow in a mewling parade, either begging for food or lecturing their butler for entering the feeding chamber empty-handed.

It’s clean. Not showroom clean. Gage clean. Every surface has purpose. Every item seems specifically placed. Warm wood cabinetry, dark stone counters, multiple workstations, an enormous island, commercial-grade appliances, and enough ovens to operate a minor bakery.

And yet, evidence of him is everywhere. A framed photograph of Marzipan glaring beside a croquembouche. Another of Muffin asleep in a mixing bowl. Close-up pastry shots arranged like actual art. And one picture of six cats posed beside Christmas pastries in tiny themed outfits.

I point. “Mom has that picture saved.”

Gage stops. “Of course she does.”

“I’m never recovering from this,” I declare, fighting a moan. Muffin is apparently my biggest fan so far, Tartlet is scratching at my stockings, and Eclair follows at a wide berth. Cannoli still circles Gage. “This feels different than I expected.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Modern. Clean. But still warm. I expected more…farm. Plaid. Rustic signs telling me to gather.”

He scoffs, “I would burn the house down first.” I laugh, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. “I split firewood because I enjoy it, not because I have barn aspirations.”

“That clears up several misconceptions.”

A little trill comes from somewhere behind me. Gage stiffens. “Uh-oh.”

“What?” I turn. “Oh!”

There she is. Marzipan is perched along the top of an antique wingback chair at the edge of the living room, balanced like a tiny queen surveying her territory. I’ve watched this cat judge Gage through countless videos. Her powder-white coat gleams beneath the warm lights as she studies me with enormous pale-gold eyes.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, drifting closer. “She’s three-dimensional.”

“You knew she was a real cat.”

“I know, but up close, she’s so beautiful!” I gush. “The prettiest cat I’ve ever seen.”

“Careful,” he warns. “She bites. And scratches. She doesn’t even give me the time of⁠—”

I take two more steps. Marzipan doesn’t move. She blinks slowly.

Oh. My. God! I got a slow blink.

I gasp and inch one hand toward her. She leans forward and rubs the side of her face along my wrist.

“What the—” Gage stops talking.

“Aww,” I whisper. Marzipan pushes her forehead against my cheek, purring so loudly, I feel it against my skin. “Gage.”