“Don’t pat him,” he warned sharply, moving quickly around the kitchen bench as Sylvie made an incomprehensible enamored sound and stretched out her hand. “He doesn’t like people and he scratches—”
The moment Sylvie’s fingers touched his cranky, diminutive head, Humphrey hunched his body, drew himself up—and collapsed into a boneless puddle. He expanded across the rug like dough spilling out of a bowl. A noise like a rusty hacksaw undulated through the room.
He was purring.
The little shit hadn’t even purred for Sebastian.
“Oh, you’re so sweet,” Sylvie said, getting right down on the floor to scritch under Humphrey’s chin. The cat batted against her hand. Affectionately. What—and Dominic could not overstate this—the fuck? She looked up. “This is your terrifying satanic cat?”
Humphrey peered up from beneath her rubs and strokes. And smirked.
“You are the feline Iago,” Dominic said flatly.
“Don’t listen to him.” Sylvie pretended to cover the flicking ears. “You’re so handsome.”
Rolling his eyes, he returned to the kitchen to pour the tea. Sylvie still had her heart set on cheesecake, but he couldn’t face anise-flavored cream cheese at two o’clock in the morning. Regardless of the time crunch to confirm the Midnight Elixir recipe, he stuck a piece of bread in the toaster.
When he took a slice of cheesecake and a fork into the living room, she was curled up on the couch with Humphrey draped over her chest, his purrs rattling louder with every stroke down his back. “Food.” He passed her the plate and she took it with murmured thanks. “Feel free to have the cat, as well. Permanently.”
“Dominic.” Sylvie cupped her hand around Humphrey’s neck. “Is that any way to talk about your son?”
He supposed he should be honored that when he returned with the tea and his toast, she nudged the annoyed cat onto a cushion so she could curl up against him instead. She did so with apparently instinctual ease, resting her head on his shoulder, and he breathed in deeply as he slowly lifted his hand to sift his fingers through her hair.
Her hairline was still a bit damp. He could smell the remnants of her perfume. Lightly, he ran his fingertips over her temple.
In his peripheral vision, Humphrey’s paw stretched toward his plate. He wouldn’t eat the toast—although he’d lick the butter just to be a dick—but it was one of his favorite pastimes, knocking other people’s life sustenance to the floor.
“Don’t even think about it.” Dominic moved the plate out of reach.
The cat’s response was to turn around and stick his backside out.
“With every passing day,” he mused, “I become more of a dog person.”
“You’re too busy for a dog.” Sylvie forked a bit of cheesecake into her mouth. “A temperamental, pessimistic cat is your ideal pet. Don’t be so ungrateful. It sounds like your grandfather knew you to a tee.”
With a faint huff of a laugh, he tilted his head tiredly back against the couch. Between an already long day, the unexpected order, and a fairly mind-shattering orgasm, he could easily drop off right here. “How’s the cheesecake?”
“Gross.” Sylvie was clearly not devastated on Darren Clyde’s behalf. “There’s a horrible aftertaste that’s not present in the drink. But . . .” She put a bit more on the tip of her tongue, considering. She swallowed. Twisted in his arms to face him. “Pomegranate. The missing ingredient is pomegranate.”
He tipped his head in acknowledgment, and she turned to burrow more comfortably, looking highly satisfied.
The rain was hitting the windows and increasing drowsiness crept over them.
“Raspberry syrup,” Sylvie said softly, and he opened his eyes.
“What?”
“A tablespoon of raspberry syrup for every cup of Sorceress emulsion.”
The ingredient he’d missed.
He looked down at the top of her head, where strands of pink and purple caught the light overhead. “Thank you.”
“Mmm.” She finished the rest of her cheesecake and pushed the plate away. Humphrey crept forward and extended his tongue. And was so offended by what it encountered that he leapt off the couch and stalked back toward the stairs. Darren Clyde proved useful in at least one instance, then. “Dominic?”
“Mmm?”
“I’m worried this wedding isn’t going to happen.”
They were both currently investing hours of work every day into crafting cake proposals for this wedding. They were both exhausted. And both of their businesses could receive a huge financial boost from a successful contract.
But it wasn’t even a question where Sylvie’s main concern was directed. Not at a potential lost contract, but at the welfare of two people whom they both liked a great deal.
He stroked the side of his thumb over her cheekbone. “Is Rosie getting cold feet?”
There had been obvious underlying tension in the princess’s body language today—or rather, yesterday; it seemed like eons ago now. Ditto Johnny, when it came to that. And Sylvie had been in private consultation with Rosie for a long time.
In the car, while Pet put on her headphones to continue the audiobook she’d also started debriefing for him, Sylvie had told him in a low voice what Rosie had said about Jessica Maple-Moore. Dominic had always thought Johnny was walking an unenviable path, purposefully eschewing all privacy and a great deal of autonomy, forever. Once the marriage license was signed, there was no exit clause. He’d always be connected to the royals, a public figure, fair game in the eyes of the tabloids. And even his reason for it all—their relationship—would never be entirely theirs alone. So Jessica’s ultimate decision that she had to walk away was entirely understandable. In her shoes, he’d probably—
Sylvie’s breath was lightly fanning the hollow of his neck. He looked down at where she lay with her cheek against his shoulder. Her long lashes were lowered as she watched her fingers playing with his shirt buttons. Her nails were painted midnight blue, and she’d painted a dozen tiny silver stars on her thumbnails; she’d told him that she’d have liked to stick on actual crystals, but even with glove use, she didn’t want to risk them falling into a batter. She’d sweated off most of her makeup making love with him, during a night he hoped he’d still remember as a very old man, and the thin blue veins standing out on her temples had an appearance of vulnerability that made his arm tighten.
Would he? Would he walk away if he were in Jessica’s position or Johnny’s position? If, hypothetically, he’d held someone in his arms who could become the center of his life, if he suddenly had that knowledge deep inside, if he’d felt their heart beating close to his, and to be with them would involve that level of sacrifice—would it be too much?
“Not cold feet in the usual sense,” Sylvie said. He’d pulled a blanket around her as the air turned chillier with the advancing night, and she was plaiting the fringe. That knee-jerk stress tic that he’d always found reluctantly endearing; even four years ago, he remembered he’d found it oddly relaxing to watch Sylvie at her station, nervously plaiting offcuts of dough as she waited for her turn in the judging. “She’s . . . I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say ‘tormented’ over what even this engagement is doing to Johnny’s life. And clearly Patrick was such an influence over her own life that the precedent with Jessica is looming large. I feel like at this point it’s fifty-fifty what happens next, whether she’ll fight to have a life with Johnny. Or whether she’ll act so he can have a life without everything that surrounds her.”