Page 85 of Cat’s Guide To Romance

His eyes narrow. “Liar.”

I kiss him before he can interrogate me, smiling when his hand immediately comes up to cup the back of my neck. I don’t tell him yet. The words are there, just waiting. I’ll tell him soon. I just want to figure out how.

29

LUCIEN

I have officially completed the Guide. All eleven steps. Technically, some have gone better than others. The cat café probably counts even though half the cats sassed Sparkle in some way. Camping definitely counts despite the tent incident. I’ve taken him on cute dates, brought him flowers, made him laugh, given him space when he needed it, and groomed him in both forms. I’ve accepted every single thing about him and met his entire family without murdering his father. That last one should count for at least three steps.

There have also been kisses. Lots of kisses. None of them have included fireworks since the unfortunate office incident. I’ve learned.

But there’s one thing on that ridiculous glittery piece of paper that keeps bothering me.

Sparkle sits between my legs on his couch while some terrible human reality show plays on the television. I haven’t understood a single thing that’s happened in the last twenty minutes because I’ve been too busy staring at the picture of the Guide on my phone. Sparkle tips his head back until he can see me.

“Are you even watching this?”

“Absolutely.” I glance at the television, where a woman is crying beside a swimming pool while another woman holds a tiny dog and screams at someone off-screen. I nod like I understand any of it. “Someone has made several poor life choices.”

Sparkle snorts and turns back around. “Close enough.”

I lock my phone and set it aside before running my fingers through his hair. His ears immediately angle toward my touch, and I scratch lightly behind one. That never gets old. Sparkle sinks farther against me as a purr starts rumbling through him, and I smile as I look around the apartment.

It smells like him now. There are pictures on the walls, ridiculous little decorations he buys because they make him happy, and more blankets than one person can possibly ever need. His bedroom is purple, and the glitter wall throws flecks of light everywhere when the sun hits it. He even turned the second bedroom into what he calls his cat room, complete with a massive cat tree beside the window.

I laughed for ten straight minutes when I saw it. Then he shifted, climbed onto the highest platform, curled into a patch of sunlight, and looked so fucking happy that I immediately started researching bigger cat trees. I haven’t bought one. Yet.

Sparkle reaches for the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, but it’s too far away. I grab it with my tail and deposit it into his lap.

“Useful,” he says, popping a piece into his mouth.

“I am so much more than useful.” The words leave my mouth before I think about it, and Sparkle stills against me. His ears twitch before he turns around in my arms until he’s sitting sideways across my lap.

“You are.” There’s nothing dramatic about the way he says it. No teasing or laughter. He simply rests one hand over my chest and studies me. “You know that, right?”

“I do.”

Sparkle keeps looking at me, and apparently he’s learned me well enough to know when I’m full of shit. I sigh and let my head fall against the back of his couch. “I’m working on it.”

“Me too.” His thumb moves absently over my shirt, and something warm settles beneath it.

That’s the strange part about us. We’re good at completely different things, but somehow we ended up with the same fucking problem. Sparkle spent most of his life believing his place in his family depended on how much he could do for everyone. I spent centuries being the best tracker the demon realm could find and convinced myself being needed meant I had a purpose.

Now Sparkle has an apartment where nobody needs him to cook dinner, and I hired a fucking manager. She’s terrifying and I adore her. She’s already threatened to ban me from touching the schedule because apparently an owner changing things without telling his manager is “counterproductive.” Sparkle thinks this is hilarious.

“I’ve been thinking about the Guide,” I say as I slide my hand over his thigh.

Sparkle immediately drops his head against my shoulder with a groan. “Oh gods. What did you do?”

I reach for my phone and open the picture Beau sent me months ago. The pink glitter paper fills the screen, covered in stickers and sixteen-year-old Sparkle’s handwriting. “But I think I did it.”

“Did what?” His ears twitch as he leans closer to see the screen.

“The Guide. I have been very thorough.” I turn the phone toward him and tap the first section. “Tummy rubs, head pats, grooming. Done. Exceptionally well, according to the amount of drooling you did in cat form last week.”

“I did not drool.” Sparkle grabs for my phone, but I lift it over my head before he can reach it.

“You absolutely drooled.”