Chapter 33 Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
I lead her to my car, still carrying the cat, her luggage trailing behind.
I pull my car keys from my pocket, lean the suitcase against the car, then open the door for Ivy. She slides inside. I hand her Mr. Pickles. He remains stiff as a board on her lap, clearly unhappy to be out of my arms.
She grins at me and shrugs.
I close the door, then load her luggage in the trunk.
As I walk around to the driver’s side, I shake my head. Imagine that. A mangy stray that loves me.
My eyes meet Ivy’s. There is nothing mangy about her, but the stray part fits. She chose me, even though I’m an aloof, slightly grumpy loner.
“I hope Mr. Pickles grows to like me as much as he likes you,” Ivy says as I pull away, heading toward the city.
“Don’t worry. He will.” Shooting Mr. Pickles a stern look, I say, “Isn’t that right, bud?”
I scratch his ears and he lets out a raspy meow. His engine tries to start again, but the poor thing is obviously in need of a tune-up.
Ivy laughs, the sound warm. Delightful.
“There’s a pet store on the corner of King and Queen Street. Figured we’d go there.” I keep stroking Mr. Pickles’s ears while steering with one hand. He relaxes on her lap.
I give Ivy a look, and she takes over. My hand moves to her leg while she strokes the cat’s ears.
The silence stretches between us, but it’s comfortable.
And now that she’s with me, it seems to go much faster than my usual commute.
We’re almost at the store when she looks at me, wide-eyed. “I think he likes me.”
I glance down at the black cat. He’s curled in her lap, peacefully sleeping.
“I know he does.”
He’s not the only one.
Mr. Pickles is not happy to be woken up by the bright lights and pet store noises. His ears flicker, the tip of one torn from something. Who knows what he’s gotten into out in the wild?
When he puffs up like he’s about to bolt, I take him from Ivy. He relaxes against me, claws clinging to my sweatshirt. I pray they don’t slice through the material, but already know that’s wishful thinking.
We exchange a glance, then hurry to the cat section. Ivy spends far too long debating over the food.
I watch her, amused. I’ve faced hostile boardrooms with less anxiety than this cat food aisle.
“Get a cart. Grab one or two of each.”
She blinks at me.
“I’m buying.”
She grins, then hurries off for a cart. I wait, murmuring in the cat’s ear that he’s going to be fine. The tension leaves him like he understands and believes me.
Ivy scoops canned and dry food into the cart, then we move to the toys and bed section.
We end up finding a scratching post for him on the way to the register, plus a pale blue collar with gemstones (not my idea) and a litterbox that Ivy grabs, pulling the existing one out of the cart. “Too plain. Pickles has style.”
I snort but don’t argue.
After buying half the store (not really, but there’s enough stuff for ten cats in the cart), we head to the car with me still carrying the cat. I hand him to her so I can load the stuff in my car.
“I know a good vet. I’ll set up an appointment.” She bites her lip. “Do you think Drew could take us if you’re at work?”
I stare at her for a moment. “You don’t drive, do you?”
She blushes, shaking her head. For some reason, I think she looks cuter than hell.
“No problem. I’ll drive you.”
“But what if you’re working?”
“I have plenty of vacation time.” Practically all of it. I never use it. Even when I was consulting virtually before moving to Hollow Creek.
Her smile is like the sun coming out at night. Mr. Pickles’ head lifts like he feels it, too.
“Thank you.”
I finish loading the car, then step closer to her. My finger goes beneath her chin. “Anytime.”
For several beats, we just stand there, Mr. Pickles between us.
She shivers, a small smile on her lips.
I step back before I get carried away and open the door. She climbs in, but the look in her eyes…
Oh yeah. I’m in trouble.
And so is she.
The door closes behind us with a soft, final click.
It sounds different when she’s with me. Like something has clicked into place that was always meant to be there.
I turn on one light. The house is dim, familiar in the way only lived-in spaces can be.
Ivy stands inside the entryway, holding the cat, eyes moving slowly over the room like she’s cataloging it.
I set the supplies on the floor, shrug off my jacket, and hang it on the hook by the door, watching her from the corner of my eye. She doesn’t move. She’s waiting. Not because she’s unsure but because she wants to see what I’ll do next.
I step closer.
“Shoes off,” I say quietly. “And let Mr. Pickles roam.”
She obeys without a word.
Something tightens low in my chest.
I gesture toward the kitchen. “Water?”
“Yes.”
I grab the litter box and pour litter into it, then reach for the bag of food. She follows me into the kitchen.
I pour two glasses and slide one across the counter. She leans back against it instead of taking a seat, eyes never leaving me. I catch the faintest smile at the corner of her mouth.
“Has the cat eaten yet?”
She shakes her head.
Mr. Pickles makes his way into the kitchen, eyes darting everywhere. I squat down, waiting until he reaches me.
“Which one do you want to try, bud?” I slide the food closer, letting him smell it. When he lingers on one, I grab the can and open it.
Ivy moves, but I give her a look that stops her in her tracks. “Nope. It’s my turn to take care of you.”
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Green eyes widen with surprise, then awe.
I wash the dish, then put the cat’s food in it. When I set it down, he lunges right for it, chowing down like he’s starving.
Ivy returns to her original position, leaning against the counter. I stand beside her, close enough that the air between us hums.
I enjoy it.
It’s something I never thought I would.
Finally, I break the silence.
“You understand,” I say, “that bringing you here means I’m done pretending this is casual.”
Her fingers curl around the glass. “I was wondering how long it would take you to say that.”
I watch her throat move as she swallows.
“I’m not asking for anything tonight,” I continue. “Just—”
I stop.
Just what?
Just her.
The realization hits harder than me going to her house in the mask. Harder than her in my bed, in my sheets, breathing me in like she already belonged there.
I straighten.
“You’re staying here,” I say instead.
Her brows raise with interest before a knowing smile curls her lips. “You stopped pretending you don’t want this.”
“I can’t pretend anymore. Nor do I want to.”
The silence stretches, comfortable and easy.
When the cat finishes eating, I gesture toward the living room. “Sit with me.”
We sit beside each other on the couch. I turn on the TV, not bothering to see what’s playing. I watch Mr. Pickles move around the room, sniffing at things, before he finally jumps up on the opposite couch.
But I’m acutely aware of Ivy beside me. I shift closer, feeling her warmth, her presence, and the steady rhythm of her breathing. Every nerve in my body hums with awareness.
I wrap my arm around her, pulling her against me. Her head is on my chest like it belongs there. I breathe in her hair.
On the exhale, I turn my face toward the TV.
The house settles around us. Her breathing slows, and she relaxes completely against me.
I don’t move, but my body is a live wire from her touch.
I turn my head and look at her. Really look. The soft curve of her mouth. The way her lashes cast shadows against her cheeks. The calm confidence in her posture. Her vanilla sugar scent is both familiar and maddening.
When I clear my throat, her eyes snap up to mine.
“I used to live by rules.”
She nods. “I know. I always wondered why you make rules you don’t want to follow.”
As soon as the question leaves her mouth, I realize she’s right. I don’t want them. I don’t need rules with her.
“You’re right.”
I lift one hand, sliding my knuckles beneath her chin, tilting her face up—gentle, controlled, unmistakable.
Her breath catches.
“No more rules.” My voice drops, the tone raspy.
My thumb brushes once along her jaw. Barely a touch. Enough to feel her warmth.
Slowly, I lower my head, closing the distance between us. My lips brush hers in a barely-there kiss before deepening it, feeling every curve of her mouth. She exhales, her hands gripping my sweatshirt like she needs me to steady her.
I moan against her lips, knowing I’m sliding into unfamiliar territory. I don’t do relationships. But I’m doing this with her.
The kiss says I choose us more clearly than any words could.
I force myself to pull back.
Her lips part, stunned and pleased all at once. Her smile comes next. Slow. Satisfied. Dangerous.
My chest feels tight, yet steady.
“Now that you’ve broken the rules, what happens next?”
I settle back against the couch, holding her in my arms. I shrug. “Whatever you want.”
She lays her head on my chest. A soft sigh escapes her. The sound is content. Like she knows she’s home.
I let it roll through me, feeling everything.
The waiting, the restraint, the quiet intimacy—it’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever chosen.
Her vanilla sugar scent curls into my space like a promise.
I relax into her, the truth becoming unavoidable: I brought Ivy home because I’m done living without her.
And that includes Mr. Pickles, too.