I laugh harder, tears flowing.
Sebastian adds calmly, “Don’t listen to him, Mr. Pickles. He’s an uptight accountant who screams like a girl.”
Drew sputters. “Uptight account—Mr. Pickles?” He drags himself upright, adjusts his shirt like dignity is something you can iron back into place, and glares at us. “Who names a cat Mr. Pickles?”
Sebastian steps forward.
“Ivy,” he says. Then, quieter, sharper, and slightly defensive, he adds, “And me.”
The room stills.
I look at him—and realize he’s not embarrassed.
Honestly?
That’s the moment I fall a little more in love with him.
35
SEBASTIAN
The kitchen looks like a crime scene.
Coffee splashed across the counter. A shattered mug on the floor. Paper towels everywhere. Drew stands near the sink, damp, rumpled, and deeply resentful of his life choices.
Mr. Pickles is curled against my chest like none of this concerns him.
Drew glares at the cat. “I just want it on record that this is the ugliest animal I’ve ever been assaulted by.”
I don’t look at him. I stroke Mr. Pickles’ ears, slow and steady. “Do you want to sleep in the garage?”
Drew scoffs. “What?”
“If you don’t stop insulting our cat,” I say calmly, “that’s where you’re going.”
The word slips out without thought.
Our.
I feel it the second it lands.
Drew freezes. “Our?—”
I cut him off with a look sharp enough to end the conversation permanently.
He closes his mouth.
Silence settles around us, thick and charged.
And then I feel Ivy’s stare.
Her pupils are blown wide, her mouth slightly parted, her posture utterly still. Like she’s cataloging me for later.
I glance down at Mr. Pickles. Then back at her.
Yeah. I might be in trouble.
Her expression shifts—slow, feral, and unmistakably pleased. Like she’s one impulsive decision away from pushing me against the counter and stripping me down to prove a point.
