Page 45 of Saint Céline
“Possibly.”
I glared at him. Vincent’s gaze moved over my face slowly. Not flirtatious but observational.
“What changed?”
I should not have answered, but I couldn’t help but say, “I’m getting my cat back.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“You have a cat?”
“I did.”
The correction slipped out automatically. Vincent watched me carefully.
“What’s her name?”
“Miss Astoria.”
There was a brief silence.
Then unexpectedly, he laughed. Not the polished public laugh. A real one. Warm and startled and brief.
I stared at him in suspicion.
“What?”
“That is exactly the kind of name I imagined your cat would have.”
“She didn’t name herself. Nor did I.”
“No,” he said softly. “I suspect you didn’t.”
The implication hung neatly between us.Katherine. Always Katherine, somehow.
Vincent adjusted the papers in his arms.
“You loved the cat?”
I looked away toward the cliffs again.
“Yes.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
“Wow,” he said.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
That irritated me immediately.
“Why?”
“Because people like you usually avoid uncomplicated attachment.”
“People like me?” My jaw tightened.
