Page 95 of Buttons

Buttons jumps onto the counter, assessing the cooking situation with feline skepticism.

“No kitchen inspectors allowed,” Julian tells him firmly before gently placing him back on the floor. The cat gives him a look of profound betrayal before stalking away, tail high.

“He’ll report us to Beatrix for health code violations and Meredith for not treating him like a prince,” I say with mock seriousness.

Julian’s laugh comes easier these days. “Sarah would revoke our adoption privileges.”

“Never.” I lean against the counter, watching him work. “You’re her favorite Plaza now. Those vegan cookies you brought last week sealed the deal.”

“Stockholm syndrome,” he quips, but I catch the pleased smile he tries to hide.

Balthazar appears at Julian’s feet, meowing with increasing urgency. The formerly feral cat now treats Julian like hispersonal property, following him from room to room with possessive devotion.

“Your fan club is getting impatient,” I observe.

Julian glances down at the orange cat. “Ten minutes, Buttons. Some of us have opposable thumbs and actual responsibilities.”

I bite back a smile at the nickname mix-up. “That’s Balthazar.”

“I know,” Julian says, not looking up from his potato cubing. “Buttons is his formal name. For special occasions.”

“So we have Pepper, Buttons, andButtons?”

He pauses his cutting to boop me on the nose with his fingertip. “What can I say, I love buttons, especially when it comes to noses.”

This casual joke lands in my chest like a small, perfect gift.

Chapter 41

Julian: Two Years Later

The sun isn’t even up when I open my eyes. I used to wake at five a.m. to get a jump on the market. Now I wake early to watch dawn break through colored glass tiles we installed in the kitchen window, and to make pancakes shaped like cats that will make Meredith giggle and Leo roll his eyes.

I slide out of bed carefully, not disturbing Elowen. She’s curled on her side, curly hair splayed across the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. I resist the urge to touch a curl and wake her with a kiss. She deserves the extra sleep, so I don’t. Instead, I pad across the house to check on the children.

Meredith sprawls diagonally across her bed, stuffed animals arranged around her while Pepper lies next to her. My little cat whisperer, just like her mama. Since she’s still asleep, I cross the hall to Leo’s room. He sleeps neatly, blanket pulled to his chin, hands folded on his chest like a miniature businessman.

Downstairs, I pull ingredients from the fridge for breakfast. Eggs crack cleanly against the bowl’s edge. It’s a skill I’ve mastered only recently. Up until last month, it wouldn’t be unusual for me to go through a second batch, as the first contained an eggshell. My fingers move with developing confidence, adding milk and vanilla before whisking. The butter sizzles in the pan as I dip bread into the mixture. French toast is Leo’s favorite. We had pancakes for Meredith yesterday.

Balthazar appears as if summoned by the smell, orange fur still rumpled from sleep. He winds between my ankles, his purr a rusty engine in the quiet kitchen.

“Good morning to you, too,” I murmur, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. “No, you can’t have French toast.”

He blinks at me with yellow eyes that once held only suspicion, but are now filled with trust. The former feral who hissed at everyone now headbutts my ankle, demanding attention. We understand each other, Balthazar and I, as we’re both reformed cranks learning to accept affection.

Footsteps on the stairs announce Leo’s arrival.

“Morning, Dad,” he yawns, climbing onto a stool at the counter.

“Morning, buddy. French toast is almost ready.”

“Can I have the blue cup?” he asks, and I reach for it automatically.

“Of course.”

We’re setting the table when Meredith thunders down the stairs, all noise and motion in her nightgown, with Pepper trailing behind her. “Is breakfast ready? I’mstarving.”

“Indoor voice, Mi-Mi,” I remind her gently, but can’t help smiling. Elowen appears in the doorway as I’m flipping the last pieces of French toast. She’s wearing soft leggings and one of my old T-shirts, her hair a glorious riot of untamed curls. No makeup. No straightening iron. Beautiful.