“Never mind.”
From the couch, Mr. Pickles flicks his tail like he’s aware of his new status.
I glance at Ivy. She’s still smiling, eyes bright, clearly delighted by the town collectively short-circuiting over us. Overme. She isn’t embarrassed. She isn’t hiding. She’s right where she belongs.
Withme.
I finish my coffee. Before I set the mug down, Ivy stands.
“I’m making fresh coffee,” she says, already moving toward the machine.
Relief hits me so fast it’s embarrassing.
I don’t even think about it—I step forward, wrap my arms around her, and kiss her in the kitchen. She sighs against my lips.
When I pull back, she smiles up at me, then turns to the fancy coffee machine. Mr. Pickles yawns and stretches like he owns the place.
Drew watches all of it, then sighs dramatically. “I need a new house. Or noise-canceling headphones.”
I don’t respond.
I just stand there, watching Ivy move through my kitchen like she’s always been here, the cat settling in, the chaos already spreading through Hollow Creek.
And somehow, it feels right.
If this is what being seen looks like, I can live with it.
36
IVY
Sebastian leaves for work like it’s any other morning—coffee in one hand, keys in the other. He murmurs a quiet“be good”to Mr. Pickles as if the cat is a toddler with a criminal record.
Then he pulls me close, the keys in his hand pressing against my lower back, his lips meeting mine—and lingering.
“Have a good day,” I whisper.
He grins and winks. “That kiss already made it great.”
He exits to the garage. I stand by the door, watching his car disappear past the hedge line.
The quiet settles in behind him.
Mr. Pickles hops onto the back of the couch and loafs like a judgmental gargoyle, green eyes tracking me as I wander through Sebastian’s living room.
Drew went into the city to meet with his divorce attorney, so it’s just Mr. Pickles and me in this big, renovated house.
The house feels different with them gone. It’s too quiet.
I try to distract myself with normal things. I rinse thecoffee pot, then wipe down the counter even though it’s already clean. I straighten a throw pillow, then straighten.
I glance toward the sliding glass doors. For a second, I could swear the leaves on the fake tree moved.
I blink, but they’re perfectly still.
I shake my head and force myself not to stare. That’s what paranoia wants—attention.
Mr. Pickles yawns like he disagrees.
