18. Cat
CAT
I wake up alone, which is not how I expected to wake up.
For a moment I lie there, confused, the memory of last night filtering back in fragments. The fête. The dancing. Iris kissing me like the world was ending and she wanted to spend her last moments doing exactly that.
And then the walk home, hand in hand, neither of us quite able to speak. Standing in the hallway outside our bedrooms, the air thick with possibility. Her eyes dark and uncertain, wanting and afraid.
"We should probably..." she'd started.
"Yeah. Probably."
And then she'd kissed me one more time—soft, sweet, a promise rather than a demand—and disappeared into her room.
So here I am. Alone. Staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out if last night was real or if I dreamed the whole thing.
The smell of coffee drifts in, which suggests it was real. Iris doesn't know how to use the French press. Or she didn't, anyway, before I taught her.
I drag myself out of bed, pull on a worn t-shirt and shorts, and make my way to the kitchen with all the grace of someone who drank too much rosé and kissed a woman she's been fantasizing about for weeks.
She's standing at the counter with a mug in her hands, staring out the window at the lavender fields. Her hair is loose, still messy from sleep, and she's wearing the same shirt she wore to bed—an oversized thing that falls to mid-thigh and makes her look soft in a way I've never seen before.
She turns when she hears me, and for a moment we just look at each other.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi."
Silence. The coffee maker gurgles. A bird sings outside.
"So," Iris says, "that happened."
I laugh despite myself—the sheer awkwardness of it, the morning-after tension that feels like something out of a romantic comedy. "Yeah. That happened."
"I'm not..." She sets down her mug, turns to face me fully. "I'm not sure what happens here. After you kiss someone at a party and then spend the whole night lying awake thinking about it."
"You were thinking about it?"
"Obviously." A blush creeps up her cheeks. "Were you not?"
"I was. All night." I move closer, drawn to her like a magnet. "I was thinking about how you taste. And the sound you made when I—"
"Cat." Her voice is strangled. "It's eight in the morning."
"And?"
"And you haven't even had your coffee yet, and you're—" She gestures at me vaguely. "Standing there. Looking like that. Saying things."
"Things?"
"Things that make it very hard to think."
I stop an arm's length away, giving her space. "Do you need to think? We can think. I can make breakfast and we can think very seriously about whatever we need to think about."
"I don't know." She runs a hand through her hair. "I feel like we should talk about what this is. What we're doing. What it means."
"Okay. Let's talk."
"See, but when you say it like that—" She shakes her head. "I don't know how to do this, Cat. I've never—this isn't something I have a plan for. I can't just wing it."
"Why not?"
"Because—" She stops, frustration flickering across her face. "Because I could mess it up. Because I don't know the rules. Because you're important to me and I don't want to hurt you by doing something wrong."
Something warm blooms in my chest at the words you're important to me. I close the distance between us and take her hands, holding them gently in mine.
"Here's what I know," I say. "I like you. A lot. More than I've liked anyone in a very long time. And last night was—" I search for the right word. "Extraordinary. You are extraordinary."
"Cat—"
"Let me finish. I'm not asking you to have it all figured out.
I'm not expecting you to know exactly what you want or what this means or where it's going.
I'm just asking you to be honest with me—about how you're feeling, what you need, when things are too fast or too slow or too anything.
" I squeeze her hands. "We figure it out together. That's all."
Her eyes are bright, almost teary. "What if I'm terrible at this?"
"Then we learn. Together."
"You keep saying that word. Together."
"It's a good word."
She laughs, shaky but real. "Yeah. It is."
I reach up and brush a strand of hair from her face, and she leans into my touch just like she did last night. "What do you want for breakfast?"
"That's your big romantic follow-up? Breakfast?"
"Food is my love language. Get used to it."
She's still laughing when she says, "Eggs. And those potatoes you made last week. And—"
The knock at the door cuts her off.
We both freeze. It's barely eight in the morning—who would be knocking at this hour? Jacques wouldn't knock, and Monique would call first, and—
"I'll get it," I say, already moving toward the door.
The man on the other side is not anyone I recognize. He's wearing a suit that's too formal for Provence in July, carrying a briefcase that screams lawyer, and his expression is the particular blend of professional and smug that I associate with people who are about to ruin your day.
"Mademoiselle Aldridge? Mademoiselle Beaumont-Clark?"
"I'm Cat Aldridge."
"Excellent." He produces an envelope from his briefcase. "I'm here on behalf of Monsieur Jean-Pierre Beaumont. This is a formal notice of intent to contest the will of Marguerite Beaumont, as well as a request for documentation regarding your respective claims to the property."
The world tilts slightly. I take the envelope automatically, my fingers numb.
"He's actually doing it," I hear myself say. "He's actually contesting the will."
"Monsieur Beaumont believes he has grounds." The lawyer's voice is polished, practiced. "The will was made during a period when Madame Beaumont's mental capacity may have been compromised. Additionally, there are questions about the legitimacy of both beneficiaries' claims—"
"We were named in the will. By a licensed notary. In front of witnesses." Iris has appeared behind me, her voice sharp. "On what possible grounds could our claims be illegitimate?"
"That's for the courts to decide, mademoiselle." The lawyer tips his head in something that's almost a bow. "You'll find all the relevant details in the documentation. I suggest you consult with your own legal counsel. Good day."
He's gone before either of us can respond, leaving us standing in the doorway with a thick envelope and the distinct feeling that the bottom has dropped out of our morning. Somewhere down the lane, Napoleon screams at his departing car. Good goat.
"Shit," I say.
"Shit," Iris agrees.
We retreat to the kitchen table, spreading out the documents, trying to make sense of the legal jargon.
It's not good. Jean-Pierre is claiming that Marguerite was showing signs of dementia in her final years—that her decision to leave the property to "strangers" is evidence of impaired judgment—that the will should be invalidated and the estate passed to the "rightful heir. "
"He's saying we're not family," Iris says flatly. "He's saying Marguerite was crazy to call us her grandchildren."
"He's wrong."
"Of course he's wrong. But that doesn't mean he can't cause damage." She stares at the papers, her face pale. "If this goes to court... if we have to prove we deserve to be here..."
"Then we prove it." I reach across the table and take her hand. "We have Ma?tre Duval. We have witnesses—the whole village, basically. We have documentation showing that Marguerite was of sound mind. And we have each other."
Iris looks at me, and I see fear in her eyes—but also something else. Determination. Steel.
"You're right," she says. "We fight this."
"Together."
"Together." She squeezes my hand. "God, we really can't catch a break, can we? One night of actually being happy, and then—"
"Hey." I move around the table, taking both her hands in mine. "This doesn't change anything. Not between us, not about how we feel, not about any of it. Jean-Pierre is a bitter old man who's been waiting for an excuse to cause trouble. We deal with him, and then we move on."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple. It's just... necessary." I lift her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "We've survived worse than Jean-Pierre Beaumont. He doesn't even cook."
Iris is quiet for a moment. Then she leans forward and kisses me—not the desperate kiss from last night, but something softer. A promise.
"Okay," she says against my lips. "We fight this together."
I believe her.
For the first time since that knock on the door, I let myself believe that we're going to be okay.
The rest of the day is phone calls. Duval, reassuring but serious—the claim is weak, not nonexistent, and we need a proper defense.
The lawyer he recommends, who agrees to file a response within the week.
Monique, who tells us Jean-Pierre can go to hell and the whole village will swear to it under oath.
By evening, we're exhausted.
We collapse on the terrace with wine and leftover cheese, too tired to cook, too wound up to sleep. The sun is setting over the lavender, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, and I try to hold onto the beauty of it—to remember that this place is worth fighting for.
"I'm sorry," Iris says suddenly.
"For what?"
"For bringing drama. Everywhere I go, there's drama." She laughs, but it's not really a laugh. "My mother, my family baggage, and now this—"
"Hey." I set down my wine and turn to face her. "You didn't bring Jean-Pierre. He's been circling this property for years, waiting for his chance. This would have happened whether you were here or not."
"But if I wasn't here, you could just—"
"I couldn't just anything." I cup her face in my hands, making her look at me. "I don't want to do this without you. Any of it. Not the fighting, not the paperwork, not the living here. You're not drama, Iris. You're—" I search for the word. "You're home."
Her eyes fill with tears. "Cat—"
"I know it's fast. I know we just started—whatever this is. But I already know. I already know that I don't want to do any of this without you."
She kisses me. It's salty with tears and fierce with something I don't have a name for, and when she pulls back, she's smiling through the tears.
"I'm not going anywhere," she says. "I'm here. With you. Fighting Jean-Pierre and figuring out lavender and burning eggs every time I try to cook them."
"You'll get better at the eggs."
"I really won't. But that's okay. That's what I have you for."
We sit there as the sun finishes setting, tangled together on the old wicker loveseat, and I feel something settle in my chest. Peace, maybe. Or certainty.
Whatever comes next, we face it together.