VANESSA BELMONT
I froze mid-kiss, my fingers still tangled in Nathan's silky hair. The sound of shattering ceramic echoed across the bedroom, followed by the unmistakable thump-thump-thump of paws making a hasty retreat.
Nathan sighed against my shoulder, his warm breath tickling my bared skin. "I swear to God, if that furry bastard broke another—"
"What furry bastard?" I cut him off, craning my neck to peer over his shoulder. "Oh, my God!"
A familiar orange-striped menace trotted into view, tail held high. Henry. My Henry. The cat who had curled up beside me when I cried, who had batted pens off my desk, who had knocked over a full glass of wine onto my mother's favorite Persian rug. The fact he was alive was a testament to Henry's ability to GTFO and hide.
And now, thanks to Nathan, he was here. In our home.
Nathan groaned, rolling off me to sit up. "That vase was Ming Dynasty."
I sat up too, but not to mourn the loss of ancient pottery. "My bah-be!"
