Chapter 30
Fritz
Ten days had passed since we'd made Presley our own, and the house finally felt like it was breathing again.
I sat beside her on the wrought iron bench in the garden, my arm draped over her shoulders, watching the morning sun turn her hair into spun gold.
She'd gained a little weight, enough that her cheeks had filled out, that the hollows under her eyes had softened.
She no longer looked like a woman who'd been starving in a caravan, rationing electricity or wearing layers of clothes to get warm, and she no longer had to eat baked beans from a tin.
She looked healthy.
She looked like she belonged here.
"Are you happy?" I asked, pressing my nose into her hair. She smelled like vanilla and rain and the expensive shampoo Hastings had ordered from some boutique in Paris.
"I really am," she said, her voice soft and wondering. "Everything is perfect. You're all perfect."
I grinned, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You say that now, Liebling. Wait until you hear Hastings complaining to the chef about something not being quite right, or sacking someone for looking at you wrong, because he will."
She laughed, the sound bubbling up from her chest like champagne. "He wouldn't?"
I pulled back to look at her, my eyebrows raised. "He sacked the gardener last week."
"What? Why?"
"The man mentioned you looked 'nice' in your leggings."
Her eyes went wide. "That's insane."
"That's Hastings." I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "The man has no chill when it comes to you."
"But I was just wearing leggings. Normal leggings."
"You could be wearing a bin bag and he'd still lose his mind if another man noticed." I shrugged. "It's actually quite entertaining to watch. Etienne started a betting pool on how long the new driver will last."
"You're all ridiculous."
"We're all yours."
She smiled, that genuine, unguarded smile that made my chest feel too tight. Her hand found mine, our fingers lacing together.
Movement at the back of the garden caught her attention. Two men in high-vis vests were measuring something near the stone wall, their voices a low murmur as they consulted a blueprint spread across a folding table.
"What are they doing?" Presley asked, leaning forward.
"If they know what’s good for them, they’ll build a pergola," I said.
"For the summer. So you have somewhere nice to sit with the baby.
Shade, flowers, maybe a swing chair if we can convince Hastings it's not a structural liability.
" I squeezed her hand. "You must be seeing his obsession with you grow. "
Her hand went to her stomach, still flat but holding the promise of our future. Our child. The thought still made my breath catch.
"You're building me a pergola."
"You can have whatever you want. Just ask."
She turned to look at me, her blue eyes swimming with tears. "I don't deserve you. Any of you."
"You deserve everything, Liebling." I cupped her face, my thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped. "And we're going to spend the rest of our lives proving it."
Her phone buzzed on the bench beside her.
The sound cut through the peaceful morning like a knife.
She picked it up, glancing at the screen. Her smile faded immediately, draining from her face like water through a sieve. The color went with it, leaving her pale and hollow-eyed.
"What is it?" I asked, sitting up straighter. My hand tightened on her shoulder.
She didn't answer. Her hands shook as she read, her lips moving soundlessly. I watched her throat work, watched her chest hitch with a breath she couldn't quite catch.
"Presley. What's wrong?"
"It's Mrs. McAdams," she whispered. Her voice was thin, fragile, like it might shatter if I spoke too loud. "A lady from the caravan park."
She handed me the phone with trembling fingers.
I read the message.
Presley, it's Mrs. McAdams. I thought you should know.
Mr. Jacob passed away last night. Heart attack.
The council is coming for his things today.
They're taking Mr. Cheddar to the pound.
They say he's too aggressive to rehome. They're going to put him down, love.
Maeve asked me to let you know, she was a little too upset to call you herself.
"Scheisse," I muttered.
Presley's breath hitched. And again. Then she was sobbing, her whole body shaking with it. The sound was raw, the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep and wounded.
"Mr. Cheddar," she choked out between sobs. "My grumpy, orange shadow. The only one who liked me when I had nothing. They're going to kill him, Fritz. They're going to—"
"No, they're not." I pulled her into my lap, wrapping my arms around her. She buried her face in my chest, her hands fisting in my shirt. "We're not letting that happen."
"But the council—" Her face was blotchy and tear-streaked, her nose running. She looked like a child who'd just had her heart broken. "And Maeve isn't there to get him for me. She can't go back to the park. It's not safe."
"The council can go to hell." I grabbed her phone, already scrolling through her contacts. "We need to go. Now. Before they—"
She swallowed hard, her throat working. "They want to kill him. Because he's grumpy. Because he hisses at people and brings them dead mice and doesn't act like a proper pet." Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "But he's not mean. He's just misunderstood. He just needs someone who gets him."
"Like you."
"Like me." She nodded, swiping at her face with the back of her hand.
"He was the only thing that made me feel less alone before Maeve arrived at the park.
When my parents died, when I lost the house, when I was living in that tin box wondering if I'd ever feel warm again—he was there.
Every morning, he'd show up at my door. Every night, he'd curl up on my bed, like he was mine.
" Her voice cracked. "I can't let them kill him. "
"We won't." I stood, pulling her to her feet. Her legs were unsteady, and I kept my arm around her waist to hold her up. "But on the way there, you need to tell me about Maeve."
Presley's eyes widened. "What?"
"She's gone into hiding. Why?"
"How do you know that?"
"I know everything about you and your friends." I kept my voice gentle, but firm. "I had to know if anyone could ever hurt you."
"She'd never hurt me."
"And would anyone who she's hiding from?"
Her throat worked. She looked away, staring at the garden, at the pergola that was being built, at the life we were creating.
"Maeve's bonded," she said finally. "To a man who hurt her.
An arranged marriage her father forced on her to settle a debt.
Gambling, business deals gone wrong, I don't know the full story.
But the man she was traded to..." She swallowed hard.
"His name is Callaghan. He's Irish mafia, Fritz.
Real, dangerous, kill-you-and-dump-you-in-the-river mafia. "
My blood went cold.
"She's been saving money to have the bond severed," Presley continued, her voice going flat. "But it costs one hundred thousand pounds. And I was going to give it to her from the surrogate arrangement. I was going to give her whatever she needed to be free."
"Not for a cottage," I said slowly.
"For a cottage too if I had twins." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a brittle, desperate sound."
My chest cracked open and I wanted to hand her my heart.
"But then I fell in love with you," she whispered.
"All of you. And suddenly the money didn't matter anymore.
I forgot about it. I forgot that Maeve was still hiding, still running, still terrified every time a car drove past her caravan.
" She looked at me, her eyes pleading. "I failed her, Fritz.
She saved me when I had nothing, and I forgot about her the moment I had something. "
"You didn't forget." I pulled her closer, my hand cupping the back of her head. "You fell in love. That's not the same thing."
"It feels the same."
"It's not." I kissed her forehead, breathing in her scent. "You were going to give away everything you earned," I said slowly. "Every penny. For your friend."
"Not everything. But she saved me, Fritz.
" Her voice was muffed against my chest. "When I first lived at the park, I never knew anyone.
I hid there, kept my head down, tried to disappear.
Then she moved into a caravan, and suddenly I wasn't alone anymore.
She brought me food when I was too proud to ask.
She made me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry.
She was the one who found the advertisement.
She was the one who made me apply for the job as your surrogate.
" She pulled back to look at me. "She's my family now.
She did all that for me, and she was hiding herself the whole time. "
I pulled her into my arms, burying my face in her hair. "You're something special, Presley Prince."
"I need to find her," she said, her voice muffled against my chest. "I need to make sure she's okay. If Callaghan finds her—if he finds out where she is—"
"He won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do." I pulled back, cupping her face in my hands. "Because we're going to find her first. And we're going to make sure she's safe."
"But how? She won't tell anyone where she is. She's terrified of being tracked. Of phones being bugged. Of—"
"We'll find her," I repeated. "I promise. But first, we're getting that cat."
"Really?" Her eyes were red-rimmed, hopeful, desperate. "But he hisses at everyone. He brought me mice as gifts and once he scratched Mrs. McAdams so badly she needed stitches. He's super grumpy. "
"So is Hastings and we kept him."
She sobbed out a laugh, the sound half-hysterical, half-relieved. Her hands covered her face as she shook with laughter. Happy tears and relief all mixed together.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Hastings.
He answered on the first ring. "Fritz. What's wrong?"
"Presley and I are going to Ripon. There's a cat situation."
A pause. "A cat situation."
"It's an emergency. Are you coming?"
"Fritz—"
"The cat is being put down today. We're leaving in twenty minutes. I'll explain on the way."
I hung up before he could argue and dialed Etienne.
"Oui?"
"Where are you?"
"On my way home from training. Why?"
"Meet us at the house in twenty minutes. We're going to North Yorkshire."
"For what?"
"To save a cat. And possibly Presley's sanity."
"I'm on my way."
I hung up and looked at Presley. She was staring at me like I'd just offered her the world. Like I'd hung the moon and rearranged the stars just for her.
"You're serious," she whispered. "You're actually going to help me get Mr. Cheddar."
"Of course I am. He's part of your pack." I pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Now go get changed. Something warm. North Yorkshire in February is miserable."
She ran for the house, her steps light despite everything.
I stayed in the garden, pulling up the number for the council offices in Ripon. I'd deal with them while Presley was upstairs. Money talked, and I had plenty of it.
The phone rang twice before a bored voice answered. "Ripon Council Animal Services."
"This is Fritz Bauer. I'm calling about a cat scheduled for euthanasia today. Orange tabby. Belonged to a Mr. Jacob."
"I'm sorry, sir, but that animal is scheduled for—"
"I'm aware. I'm calling to claim him."
"The animal has been deemed aggressive and unsuitable for—"
"I don't care." I kept my voice pleasant, but firm. "I'm claiming him. I'll pay whatever fees are required, plus a donation to your shelter. Let's say ten thousand pounds?"
Silence on the other end.
"Ten thousand pounds," the voice repeated.
"For the cat and the donation. The cat comes home with me today. Are we clear?"
"I'll... I'll need to speak with my supervisor."
"You do that. But if that cat is harmed in any way before I arrive, the donation disappears and you'll be hearing from my lawyers. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
I hung up.
Twenty minutes later, the back door opened, and Hastings appeared, his suit jacket already off, his tie loosened. Etienne was right behind him, wearing gray sweatpants and a white tee-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower.
"We're using the helicopter to get a cat," Hastings said flatly.
"A cat," I confirmed.
"This is ridiculous."
"This is important to her."
Hastings' jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Fine. We'll get the cat."
"There's more." I looked at both of them.
"Maeve. Presley's friend. She's bonded to someone who hurt her.
Irish mafia. A man called Callaghan. She's been hiding in caravan parks and cheap hotels, trying to scrape together enough money to have the bond severed.
And Presley was going to pay for it. Every penny from the surrogate arrangement. She was going to give it all to Maeve."
Etienne went very still. "All of it?"
"One hundred thousand pounds."
Hastings didn't even blink. "We'll pay for it."
"Henry—"
"We'll pay for it," he repeated, his voice firm. "For Presley. If this woman matters to her, she matters to us."
Etienne nodded. "Agreed."
"There's a problem," I said. "We don't know where she is. Not exactly. My sources tell me she's been seen in Bridlington, but she must be using a false name wherever she's staying. I assume she’s terrified of being tracked."
"Because Callaghan is looking for her," Etienne said quietly.
"Yes."
Hastings pulled out his phone, his fingers already moving across the screen. "I'll find her."
"How?"
"I just will." He looked up at me, his gray eyes sharp and determined. "In the meantime, let's get that cat."
Footsteps on the stairs announced Presley's return. She'd changed into jeans and a thick jumper, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She'd washed her face, but her eyes were still red-rimmed. She looked young and vulnerable and beautiful.
"Ready?" I asked.
She nodded.
Hastings stepped forward, pulling her into his arms. She went willingly, burying her face in his chest. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, holding her close.
"We're going to fix this, Presley," he said quietly. "The cat. Maeve. All of it."
She looked up at him, fresh tears streaming down her face. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle and reverent. "Let's go get your grumpy orange menace."
"And then we find Maeve," she said.
"And then we find Maeve," he agreed.
As we headed for the helicopter, Hastings hung back, his phone already at his ear.
"Yes, I need a full search of bed and breakfasts in Bridlington. Cross-reference with recent bookings. Single female, Irish accent, paying cash. I want an address within the hour."
His eyes met Presley’s who gave him a weak smile.