Page 3 of Curious Hearts (The Healing Hearts #2)

CHAPTER THREE

“The cats are mostly upstairs,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Fernandez, was saying. “Except for Ernest. He likes the window seat in the living room. And Empress, well, she comes and goes as she pleases.”

Jessica nodded absently, her fingers curling and uncurling at her sides, nails biting into her palms with each clench.

Her eyes cataloged the kitchen’s deficiencies.

The cabinets would need complete replacement.

The appliances belonged in a dumpster, created before energy guides were even a concept.

The countertops—were those actually laminate?

Her stomach twisted, acid burning the back of her throat.

A minimum of eighty-five thousand dollars for a proper kitchen renovation, possibly more given the home’s historical status.

But the room had good bones: high ceilings, excellent natural light, and what appeared to be original crown molding beneath decades of paint.

“They all have different feeding schedules,” Mrs. Fernandez continued, handing over a sheet of paper covered in handwritten notes. “Ms. Porter was very particular about their diets.”

Jessica glanced at the paper, her eyes widening as they scanned the alarmingly complex feeding regimen.

Apparently, one cat needed grain-free wet food, while another required prescription kibble, and a third would only eat if the food was warmed slightly.

Her hands trembled as she gripped the sheet, the paper crackling in her tightening grasp.

She felt a bead of sweat, or two, on her hairline.

Even her blouse, a Theory silk classic cut in deep rose, suddenly seemed too restrictive against her skin.

She fought the urge to pull out her phone and create a properly structured spreadsheet, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts as panic clawed at her chest. This really was too much.

Be a swan. Be a swan , she repeated silently, refusing to allow anyone a glimmer of the excruciating anxiety swirling inside her.

Jessica followed the older woman up the creaking oak staircase, each step making her predicament more surreal.

The wood groaned beneath her feet like a living thing, the sound scraping along her nerves.

Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been finalizing a multi-million-dollar stock acquisition for one of her top clients.

Now she was being guided through a cat-infested Victorian by a housekeeper who seemed to think she should be grateful as she told her about the “new” mattress in the master bedroom.

The unfamiliar scents—decidedly animal—resulted in her stomach rolling and her shoulders tightening until they were almost touching her ears, muscles coiling tight enough to snap.

For a fleeting, horrifying moment, her nose tingled with the threat of a sneeze, her eyes watering as she fought to suppress it.

As they reached the top of the stairs, a large black cat with a white chest patch suddenly appeared in the hallway.

Jessica’s heart slammed against her ribs, her breath catching painfully in her throat.

Ice flooded her veins as she stumbled back, her designer heels catching on the worn carpet runner.

“Ah, that’s Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Fernandez said. “He’s always the curious one.”

The cat stared at Jessica, his yellow eyes boring into her like twin suns.

Her skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending screaming danger.

She opened her mouth to respond to the housekeeper, but no words came out, her mouth bone-dry, tongue thick and useless as the cat approached with deliberate slowness.

He circled her legs once before sitting directly in front of her, blocking her path.

The brush of his fur against her trousers sent a shot of static shooting up her legs, her muscles locking in place.

“He likes you.” Mrs. Fernandez seemed unable to hide her surprise. “He’s usually quite standoffish with strangers.”

“Lucky me,” Jessica said, her voice cracking on the words. Her throat felt lined with sandpaper. Mr. Darcy continued to stare, his tail swishing against the hardwood floor with a soft, rhythmic sound that seemed to mock the wild drumbeat of her heart.

Mrs. Fernandez quickly outlined the rest of the cats’ care requirements, from litterbox cleaning to outdoor privileges, before finally handing Jessica a detailed list of preferences for each cat.

When she mentioned that Empress occasionally brought in “presents” from her hunting expeditions, Jessica’s stomach heaved violently.

Bile scorched her throat as vivid images of mangled mice flashed through her mind.

The pain of her own fingernails digging into her flesh was now the only thing keeping her anchored.

Her mind instantly calculated new figures, numbers spinning behind her eyes as she desperately grasped for control: ten-minute drive here from her penthouse, then the same to Hamilton Trust. Ten hours at the office.

Seven or eight hours of sleep, if she was lucky.

Plus basic human necessities. Her chest constricted, ribs seeming to compress around her lungs.

Black spots danced at the edges of her vision.

This was unsustainable. She needed staff. She needed control. She needed to breathe.

“Mrs. Fernandez,” Jessica said, turning to the woman, her voice thin and reedy, now unable to hide her desperation. “Would you be interested in continuing your employment here? I’d increase your hours and compensation, of course.” Her fingers knotted together, knuckles white with strain.

The older woman’s expression softened with what looked uncomfortably like pity. Heat flooded Jessica’s face, humiliation crawling up her neck like poison ivy.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I’m moving to Arizona next week. My granddaughter just had twins.”

FUCK! The word echoed in her skull as sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, her silk blouse clinging uncomfortably to her damp skin.

“But you have Dr. Ritchie’s number, and she knows each of these little monsters well,” Mrs. Fernandez added, her tone light. “She’ll help you get settled.”

When she heard Dr. Ritchie’s name, a fragment of hope kindled in Jessica’s chest. Perhaps she could dump these creatures on the behaviorist. As an animal lover she could hardly say no.

Unlike Vivian Porter’s old housekeeper who was now walking to her car, waving a hand in the air without a single glance over shoulder.

The sound of the older woman’s car door slamming reverberated through Jessica, sealing her fate. She didn’t wait to see the woman’s Nissan Versa jauntily turn at the end of the road. Instead, she returned to the cat prison to which she’d been sentenced.

Whether out of curiosity, or sheer devilment, Jessica was inclined to believe the latter, Mr. Darcy followed her upstairs to the master bedroom and jumped onto the dresser, knocking over a bottle of perfume. The sharp crack of glass on wood shot through Jessica, her heart leaping into her throat.

“No!” she said as though addressing one of her junior analysts who dared present an unvalidated report. But her voice wavered, cracking on the single syllable.

The cat stared at her, unimpressed, his whiskers twitching in what she could swear was amusement. Then deliberately, no, mockingly, he pushed a framed photograph to the edge of the dresser.

“Don’t you dare,” Jessica warned, her voice rising to a pitch she hadn’t heard since childhood. Every muscle in her body coiled tight, ready to lunge.

With unwavering eye contact, the cat nudged the frame until it teetered on the edge, then with a final flick of a paw, it toppled to the floor with a crash.

The sound exploded through Jessica’s nervous system, adrenaline flooding her bloodstream, her vision narrowing to just the cat and his next target.

Without breaking his stare, Mr. Darcy then slowly, so slowly—as though saying “Dare Me!”—extended his paw toward a delicate porcelain figurine.

“I will donate all of you to a petting zoo,” Jessica threatened, stepping forward to move the figurine out of his reach. Her fingers barely registered the cool porcelain as she snatched it away, her entire body vibrating with tension.

Mr. Darcy yawned, displaying impressive canines, then began to groom himself with exaggerated nonchalance, as if to say, “I could destroy everything you love, but I choose not to... for now.”

Jessica closed her eyes and counted to ten as she forced air into her lungs, each breath a monumental effort.

“Dr. Ritchie had better be a miracle worker,” she muttered, pulling out her phone to search for emergency housekeeping services.

A soft noise from the doorway caught her attention.

She looked up to see a slender calico cat watching her from the threshold, amber eyes wary but curious.

Jessica’s entire body froze, every muscle locking in place.

Her breath stalled in her chest as those golden eyes seemed to pierce straight through her.

Unlike Mr. Darcy’s bold challenge, this cat—Empress, she presumed, if Mrs. Fernandez’s description of her new dependents was accurate—seemed to be taking her measure from a safe distance.

Their eyes met briefly, and a shiver raced down Jessica’s spine, raising goosebumps along her arms. For one suspended moment, she forgot to breathe.

Then the calico turned and vanished silently down the hallway, leaving Jessica with the unsettling sensation of being judged with such scrutiny it put her mother’s overbearing efforts to shame.

She let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders sagging as the adrenaline ebbed. She sank onto the edge of the bed, her legs finally giving out. The mattress creaked beneath her, another unfamiliar sound in this house of strangers.

Jessica had the distinct impression she’d just failed some sort of test—and Jessica Taylor wasn’t accustomed to failing anything.

Dr. Ritchie had better be as impressive as her dearest darling Aunt Vivian claimed she was.