The whole point of a visit to the cat café was to put our relationship on public display. And the fastest way to go public, except for maybe making out with Locke in the middle of the pub during a big footy match, was to get Old Jo sniffing around. She could spread gossip faster than the flu.
“Here, let me,” Locke said, pulling the door open. I slid past him and into the familiar homey warmth.
There were a series of small, round tables up one wall, large group tables in the middle of the space, and endless benches with stuffed pillows. Everything was painted in shades of olive green and rose pink. The walls were exposed brick, and there was even a shelf of well-loved books. Aside from the Deerhound’s lobby, I considered it to be the coziest place in Braeburn.
“Give me your hand,” Locke whispered, his breath tickling the back of my neck.
“Hmm…What?”
“Your hand,” he repeated.
Oh, right.Fiancée. I grabbed his hand. Locke tugged away. “Not that one.”
“What’s wrong with this one?”
“It feels weird.”
“Weird?”
“I need you to be on this side,” he said, switching our positions.
“Why?” I was so confused.
“It’s better this way. More practical.”
“Practical?”
“Yes, especially when we’re standing together.”
“Standing?”
“Why do you keep repeating what I say?”
I opened my mouth to ask another question, but before I could, he placed a finger over my lips and linked our fingers together. “If I’m holding your left hand, no one will see your ring.” He held up our linked hands. “Besides, doesn’t this just feel right?”
A flush crept up my neck, itching at my cheeks. Itdidfeel right. Like we’d been together long enough that we had a way of standing together that suited us. But I tried not to think too hard about all that.It’s practical, I reminded myself.Just like he said.
“Where are the cats?” Locke asked.
“You’ve never been in here before?” I asked.
He shook his head.
I gestured to a window that looked into the room where the cats hung out during the day. It was a large space with worn couches, soft rugs, cat trees, and toys scattered about.
“That ginger one is my favorite,” I said, pointing out Gus. “He definitely has one brain cell, but he’s all the cuter for it.”
“I like that one,” Locke said, pointing out the wrinkly sphynx glowering at us from its perch on the back of an armchair.
“Ugh, of course you like the mean, judgmental one.”
“Hey, you two!” Cat called, waving from behind the counter where the espresso machine gleamed. Rows of hand-thrown mugs glittered on the shelf above her head.
“Hey,” I called, tugging Locke toward the counter. I pressed up against it, lowering my voice. “She’s here?”
Cat’s eyes cut across the room. “Just popped into the bathroom.” Her eyes dropped to our entwined hands, her lips curling up the side of her face. “What can I get the happy couple?”
“Oat milk latte for me,” I said.
