Page 67 of The Magic We Made

It’s as I’m thinking this that I realize the sound I’ve been hearing but can’t place isn’t Ash’s steady breathing beside me, or even the coo of the mourning doves in the tree outside. It’s a different sound, a kind of steady, rhythmic hum. Or is it more of a purr?

It is. It’s a purr. But where is Daisy? And why is she purring so loudly if no one is petting her?

Puzzled, I sit up—careful not to wake Ash—and look around my bedroom. The cat has to be here somewhere. Why else can I hear her?

But she’s not on my bed or on the cat bed I placed so carefully for her on the window seat so she could enjoy the view without going outside. Where—

And then, while scanning the sisal carpet on the floor, I see my wicker laundry basket.

I must have gasped loudly enough to wake Ash, since he immediately raises his head and blinks sleepily. “Wh-what’s happening?”

But I’ve already thrown back the duvet and raced to the side of the laundry basket.

“Kittens!” I cry and sink to my knees.

Because there, in the middle of my laundry basket where I’d dropped the brand-new dress I’d worn the night before—notbecause I intended to wash it later, but because I was in too much of a hurry to jump Ash’s bones to bother hanging it back up—lies Daisy.

But not only Daisy. She’s contentedly nursing newborn kittens. It’s hard to tell how many there are because they’re all piled on top of one another in a warm cuddle-puddle. All I can see is that there’s a calico-colored one, a bright orange one, and at least one little all-black one.

Their mother has noticed I’m looking at her and slow-blinks at me—a sure sign a cat is feeling comfortable and at home—her purring increasing in volume.

Ash sits up so he can see what I’m looking at. Then he bursts out laughing.

“I tried to warn you,” he says.

“You did.” Now that Daisy has moved a little, eager to show me her new family, I can count the squirming, sightless little bodies. “Three! She’s got three kittens. Oh, Daisy, you good girl. Yes, you’re a very good girl.”

“And right in the basket, too.” Ash has climbed out of bed to join me on the sisal rug. The two of us kneel there, stark naked, gazing down at the new little family as he slips an arm around my shoulders. “Well done, Daisy.”

“Yes. Well done, Daisy.”

I don’t mention the ruined dress. It doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is the happiness I feel right at that particular moment.

Maybe it’s because of Daisy and her little family. Or maybe it’s because of the dopamine and oxytocin.

Or maybe—just maybe—it’s because of Ash Merit.

Ash

It’s Sunday morning, and I’m in Francesca Giovanni’s kitchen making breakfast, wearing only my briefs and a red-checked apron I found in the pantry that saysDon’t Be Upsetti—Eat Spaghetti!

“How do you like your eggs?” I ask Frankie as I melt a mound of butter in the cast-iron skillet she handed me when I said I’d make breakfast. “Cheesy, super cheesy, or ultra cheesy?”

“Uh...”

Frankie is racing around, getting things ready for her new feline family. She’s moved Daisy’s food bowls from the kitchen to the bedroom so the cat won’t have to walk as far to get to them, and is currently “kitten-proofing” the house, even though I told her I think it’s going to be a while before those kittens are able to walk around on their own. Their eyes aren’t even open yet. There’s no way any of them are going to be able to climb out of that basket for at least another week or two.

But she’s shoving rolled-up towels against the bottom of the refrigerator, stove, and dishwasher anyway. Wherever there’s atiny, kitten-sized gap one of them could slip into, Frankie is finding a way to plug it.

“Cheesy eggs are fine,” she says, sounding distracted.

And who wouldn’t be? It’s not every morning you wake up to find that your pet has given birth... or that a man as good-looking as me has taken over the breakfast-making.

“Ultra cheesy it is, then,” I say, opening the block of cheddar I find in her refrigerator so I can grate it. “You know, you have one of the best-stocked kitchens I’ve ever seen. I like a woman who has three—no,five—different kinds of olive oil.”

“You need different kinds of olive oil for different preparations.” Frankie stops in her tracks and stares at me. “Where did you get that apron?”

“From the pantry. Why?” I do a little spin. “Are you jealous? Do you want to wear it?”