“This… this isyourcat.”
“Nope. My cat’s right here.” He lifts Damien slightly, who trills, smug and imperial, and stares at the imposter in my arms with unveiled disgust.
The cat in my hands thrashes harder.
“Then whose cat am I holding?”
“Excellent question. You brought it here, so I assumed you knew.”
“I found it on my porch! It’s white! It’s fluffy! So I made a reasonable assumption!”
“You kidnapped a stranger’s cat.”
“Technically, I rescued what I thought was your cat and returned it out of the goodness of my heart.”
“You’re bleeding.”
I glance down. Three thin scratches on my forearm, courtesy of whomever this angry fluffball actually belongs to. “Battle wounds. Earned in service of your ungrateful cat.”
“That’s not my cat.”
“I’m aware of that now, thank you.”
He’s grinning, full and wide, leaning against the doorframe with Damien tucked against his chest, enjoying every second of this. The imposter cat seizes the moment, twists free of my hands, drops to the ground, and rockets between Brody’s legs into the house.
“Oh, shit.” I watch the white blur vanish down the hallway. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be. This is already the best night I’ve had all week.” He deposits Damien in the hallway bathroom and shuts the door. An indignant squeak comes from inside. “Right. Let’s catch your hostage before she tears things up.”
“She?”
“I’m certain it’s Mrs. Nepine’s cat. She cornered me by the mailboxes last week and told me to keep my, and I quote, ‘monstrous beast’ away from her precious princess.”
I burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, but she sounds dramatic.”
Brody’s mouth twitches. “Damien once stole an entire rotisserie chicken through a delivery bag. So, she’s not half wrong.”
I laugh as he steps back and waves for me to enter. “Let’s catch this interloper.” That’s when a crash comes from somewhere deeper in the house.
Brody gestures down the hall. “Come on.”
We hurry down the hallway toward the sound, Brody barefoot and far too calm for a man with an unknown cat loose in his house, while I’m right behind him, trying not to stare at the width of his shoulders.
His place still has that newly moved-in feeling, half lived in and half waiting to become something. A few cardboard boxes are stacked against one wall, one labeled Camera Gear in black marker, another with Corey’s Junk, Do Not Open scrawled across the side. Who the heck is Corey? There’s a framed print leaning against the baseboard instead of hanging, a pair of sneakers abandoned near the stairs, and the faint scent of coffee, sugar, and something warm baked into the walls already.
We reach the kitchen, and my brain takes one embarrassing second to catch up with my eyes.
Oh.
This kitchen.
The room is bigger than I expected, all pale counters, dark cabinets, open shelving, and lights that make everything look like it belongs in one of his videos. There’s the long island where I’ve watched him work dough with those big hands. The cutting board that’s now familiar. The copper mixing bowl. Then the little perch near the window where Damien usually sits like a fluffy white tyrant judging Brody’s technique. It’s strange being inside the frame instead of watching from across the yard. It’s exciting at the same time that I recognize so much of this from spying and his videos.
A crunching sound comes from beside the pantry, and we both turn.
We find the fugitive in the kitchen all right. She’s face-deep in Damien’s bowl, eating with the commitment of a creature who has found paradise and intends to consume all of it before it’s revoked.
“She clearly loves whatever dinner Damien abandoned!”