“He really likes me, doesn’t he?” he says, gazing down at the cat he’s holding, and I laugh at the undisguised pride in his voice.
“He does. Cottonball is cuddly by nature, but you two seem to have a special bond. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so blissed out.”
And it’s true. My cat is really enjoying being petted by those big, strong hands. Then again, who wouldn’t? I know anytime he touches me, I turn into boneless goo. Like that morning the other weekend, when he massaged me all over before using his tongue to—
“Excuse me, Mr. Carelli, Ms. Walsh? Dinner is ready.”
The British-accented voice startles me out of my dirty daydream, and as I stand up to face Marcus’s butler, with Queen Elizabeth clutched against my chest, I curse my Irish heritage for giving me such a blush-prone complexion.
My cheeks are burning so hot they must be strawberry red.
“Thank you, Geoffrey,” Marcus says without putting down Cottonball. “We’ll be right there.”
If Marcus’s butler is startled to see his employer with a fluffy white cat in his arms and a blushing redhead at his side, he doesn’t show it, his expression as neutral as ever. Still, I drape Queen Elizabeth over my shoulder to hide some of the telltale color in my neck as I smile at him and say, “Yes, thank you, Geoffrey. And thank you so much for setting up my cats’ things.”
The butler’s expression warms a fraction. “It’s my pleasure, Ms. Walsh. Please let me know if you or your pets”—he glances at the cats we’re holding—“need anything during your stay with us.”
“Oh, we’ll be fine, thank you. It’s just for one night,” I say, my smile widening. For all his stiff posture and formal manners, the thin British man seems to be genuinely kind.
“Or longer,” Marcus says, coming up to stand at my side. “Geoffrey, if you get a chance, please unpack Emma’s suitcase while we’re eating. I left it by the entrance. Also, please make sure the cats can find their litter boxes, food, and toys.”
“Yes, Mr. Carelli,” Geoffrey says and hurries away before I can protest that I’m not staying longer and don’t need my suitcase unpacked.
Turning, I glare at Marcus, but he’s not looking at me. He’s gazing down at purring Cottonball, who’s made himself comfortable in the crook of his arm, and the quiet fascination on his strong-featured face makes me swallow back the fighting words.
I don’t know what it is about seeing this indomitable man so undone by a ball of fluff, but my heart feels like it’s both glowing and melting.
“How about I show them the location of the litter boxes?” I suggest softly. “Just in case they need it while we eat.”
Marcus meets my gaze with a smile. “Sure. I’ll come with you.”
And with Cottonball in his arms and Queen Elizabeth in mine, we walk side by side toward the bathroom he allocated to my cats.
21
Emma
“You know, you’ve never mentioned your father,” Marcus says as we sit down to eat, finally sans cats. Cottonball has adjusted to being in a new place like a champ, but convincing Queen Elizabeth to climb down from my shoulder took almost twenty minutes, as did getting Mr. Puffs out from under the couch and to his litter box. Now, though, all three cats are relatively calm and roaming around the penthouse, with Geoffrey doing his best to keep them from getting into trouble.
I told him it was futile, but he’s determined to try.
Spearing a piece of asparagus, I consider Marcus’s words. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I don’t know who my father is, so I never think about him.”
“Your mother never told you?”
“She didn’t know herself. I was conceived during one of the less discriminating periods in her dating history.” Which is putting it mildly. My grandparents never said it outright, but from what I’ve gleaned, my mother may have been either an escort or a full-on prostitute at the time.
Sympathy warms the cool blue of Marcus’s gaze. “I see.”
I smile at him. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. I doubt he was an upstanding citizen, so it’s really for the best.”
“You may be right.” Marcus cuts a perfectly seasoned scallop in two and forks one half into his mouth. “It might be better to imagine him however you want,” he says after he chews and swallows.
“Yes, exactly. When I was a little girl, I fantasized that he was a prince or a diplomat from some faraway land. Later, when I grew up, I decided it would be enough if he was a regular guy, nothing fancy but kind. I started imagining a truck driver with a pot belly who just happened to be passing through the city the night he hooked up with my mother. Some solid Midwestern dude who likes to have a couple of beers on the weekends and owns a big dog. And maybe a cat or two. Because you know, it’s got to be genetic.”