Page 19

“Tell me about it.” I giggle and watch Sophia and Blanche team up to steal the tennis ball from Rose. “The last two are Bean and Luna. Two black cats that were about to be sacrificed this Halloween. Luckily, someone managed to steal them before anything could happen.”

His head slowly turns to me, eyes wide. “Sacrificed?”

“Yup,” I say, popping the ‘p.’ “They were bought or adopted for the sole purpose of slicing them open in some kind of ritual. When they came in, they had all kinds of weird markings painted on them. The two of them are little divas. Very ‘love me’ to ‘don’t even breathe in my direction’ within the blink of an eye.”

“Ahw man. A friend of mine almost got a black cat.”

“Almost?” I frown and tilt my head. “What happened?” And why do I want to know? Talking to him is a lot easier than I expected, and I’m watching myself turn down a slippery slope.

Relax, Brooke. He’s your brother's ex.

“She found the cat in the middle of the road when she first moved to Wayward Hollow. Much like Mr. Muffin, Nic rushed him to the vet, but Henry couldn’t save her. So almost.” He shrugs.

My heart sinks. That’s horrible! How can he sound so amused telling this story?

“And now she’s convinced the cat is haunting her. Ever since she moved into her house, animals have started appearing there. First, it was a screaming kitten. She named her Pumpkin. Then another cat, this one she also kept and calls Cinnamon. Then two cats, another friend adopted, and the adorable little menace over there. They appeared right on her porch last Thanksgiving.” He nods towards his golden retriever.

“Your friend must be a kind soul if an animal picked her as its human in the last minutes of her life and declares her a safe space even in the afterlife.”

Suddenly the dogs come sprinting over to us, mischief written all over their faces.

“Blanche! Sophie! Dorothy! Down.” The three of them stop in their tracks. Which, honestly, is more than I’d hoped for.

Kieran tells his dog to sit, too, but Dick has no interest in doing so. Instead, he licks my face.

“I’m sorry.” Kieran gets up with a groan, wipes his hands on his jeans and scoops him up. And I'm just saying, a golden retriever is not exactly a scooping-up kind of size. "There you go. Sorry, Brooke. I'd help you up, but..." He nods at the giant dog in his arms.

"I'm okay." I get back on my feet and pat the dirt off my pants. Not much use since the ground is wet, but a girl can try.

How weird. This was our first real conversation, and it felt surprisingly natural to talk to him. More natural than I’m comfortable with, to be honest, because it was even kind of… fun?

Don’t Brooke. He’s your brother's ex.

"Are you?" He cocks his head and stares at me so intensely he might be able to read my thoughts. “Okay, I mean.”

"Of course.” I frown, but avoid looking at him and clip on Dorothy’s leash again instead. “Why are you asking?"

He stares at me with an expression I can't quite read. There's something about his gaze, something about his ice-blue eyes, that makes me avert mine and pretend to pick a leaf out of Rose’s fur.

"Did Evan tell you?" It would be very on brand for him to gossip about the sanctuary disaster to any and everyone. Small town gossip has to originate somewhere, and I know it wasn’t Hannah.

"Tell me what?" He sets down his dog and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Finally, I dare to glance at him again. The confusion written all over his face tells me he’s completely clueless. It lets me breathe a little easier.

"So, he didn't," I mumble, a weight off my chest.

"I'm only asking because you seem down." He shrugs, clears his throat. "If you don't want to tell me, fine, but since you haven’t noticed yet, I’m a fantastic listener."

I pretend not to watch him. It's weird to talk to him when he doesn’t pull his usual jokes, the name of his dog aside.

Whenever I've met him so far, he's put on this extroverted personality I can tell is not real. There’s always a slight stiffness in his smile; it doesn’t reach his eyes, and his shoulders drop when he thinks nobody is paying attention.

"My shelter had some funding fall through," I find myself saying, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay." I let out a sigh and shake my head. "I'm sure I'll figure something out, but..." I let this end of the sentence hang in the air.

"You hate asking for help, don't you?"