Page 7 of Curious Hearts (The Healing Hearts #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jessica stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

A stranger looked back. Her curls stuck out from a hasty bun, dark shadows hung beneath her eyes, and a snag marred the silk of her pajama top where Mr. Darcy’s claws had caught—courtesy of his dawn “wake-up service.” The towel she’d jammed against the door last night lay in a heap on the floor, defeated by the cat’s persistence.

Two weeks in this house, and her life was unraveling thread by thread.

She straightened. You’ve faced down boardrooms full of men who thought they could intimidate you. You’ve closed billion-dollar deals. Seven cats won’t break you.

Ernest appeared in the doorway, his massive orange form blocking the exit. He fixed her with a pointed stare and released a deep, rumbling meow.

“I know. Breakfast. I’m coming.”

She splashed cold water on her face and followed the cat downstairs.

At least the spreadsheet she’d created helped streamline the feeding process.

Each cat’s dietary requirements, medications, and dish preferences documented with military precision.

She’d even color-coded the dishes: blue for Ernest, green for Galadriel, yellow for Scout.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. Empress, the elusive calico, slipped into the kitchen, keeping to the periphery.

“I’m not the enemy,” Jessica said, placing the cat’s dish on the counter. She backed away, giving the wary feline space. “Unlike some of your housemates.” The three parallel scratches on her forearm stung—Zelda’s critique of her first attempt at petting.

By five thirty a.m., she’d fed six cats. Empress waited until Jessica retreated before approaching her food. An hour remained before her Frankfurt call. Enough time to shower, dress, and set up her workstation. She turned toward the stairs.

Her phone rang. The screen displayed her mother’s name and photo. Jessica’s stomach tightened.

“Hello, Mother.”

“Jessica, darling.” Lakshmi Mehta-Taylor’s voice cut through the morning air. “Three days without returning my calls is unlike you. I began to wonder if you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”

Jessica climbed the stairs, counting breaths. “I’m sorry. The transition to the new house has been... consuming.”

“Ah yes, Vivian’s old place.” Her mother’s tone suggested they were discussing a contagious disease. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t contest the will.”

“The terms were specific.” Jessica entered her bedroom to find Mr. Darcy sprawled across her pillow, shedding black fur like confetti. “And the property has exceptional investment potential.”

“It’s in that transitional neighborhood,” her mother replied. “Your father tells me it’s becoming fashionable with young professionals. Well, that’s not why I called.”

Jessica tried to shoo Mr. Darcy off her bed.

The cat responded by rolling onto his back, exposing his belly in what looked suspiciously like an invitation.

Ali’s voice from yesterday echoed in her mind: “It’s a sign of trust, though be careful—some cats offer their belly then grab when you touch it.

” The memory came with a clear image of Ali’s slight smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she explained cat behavior.

They’d shared six sessions now, each one lasting a little longer.

“Your father and I want to see this new living arrangement of yours.”

Jessica froze, hand hovering above Mr. Darcy’s belly. “That’s not convenient right now. The house is still... settling. I’m still settling.”

“Nonsense. It’s been weeks. Surely you’ve made the place presentable by now.”

“Two weeks, Mother.”

“Well, it will be three weeks by Saturday. I’m not seeing the issue. Besides,” her mother continued without pause, “we’ve invited the Patels to join us. Their son Vikram is back from London. He’s made partner at Montgomery Sachs.”

There it was. The agenda beneath the social call.

“Mother, I’ve told you I’m not interested in being set up.”

“It’s hardly a setup, darling. Just dinner with old family friends. The fact that Vikram is single, ambitious, and from an excellent family is merely contextual information.”

Mr. Darcy struck, latching onto Jessica’s hand with gentle teeth and rabbit-kicking her wrist with his back paws. She yelped.

“Jessica? What was that? Are you alright?”

“Fine.” She extracted her hand from Mr. Darcy’s grasp. “Stubbed my toe. Look, I need to get ready for work. We’ll discuss this later.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Mother, I said we’d discuss this later.” The line went dead. Lakshmi Mehta-Taylor rarely ever heard anything other than the answers she’d preselected.

Jessica stared at the phone, then at the cat, who calmly groomed himself as if he hadn’t just assaulted her.

“Hopefully, she took that on board,” she muttered, rolling her eyes, knowing it was a long shot.

Mr. Darcy paused in his grooming to blink slowly at her. Jessica found herself imagining Ali meeting her mother—the contrast between Ali’s easy warmth and her mother’s calculated scrutiny. The thought of Ali at this dinner was oddly comforting, though she couldn’t say why.

Her watch chimed. According to Mrs. Fernandez’s schedule, it was time for the dreaded litter box cleaning. Better tackle it before showering.

In the utility room mirror, Jessica steeled herself. Despite tackling this particular chore multiple times, it still filled her with dread. “You’ve negotiated billion-dollar deals, Taylor,” she whispered. “You can handle cat waste.”

From beneath the sink, she extracted her arsenal: industrial-strength rubber gloves in hazardous-materials yellow, a surgical face mask, and one of the plastic aprons she’d discovered in the cleaning closet, presumably another remnant from Mrs. Fernandez’s time.

Suited up, she resembled a scientist preparing to handle plutonium rather than an investment director.

The laundry room housed four large litter boxes arranged in a precise row. Jessica approached with the caution of someone entering a minefield.

“Let’s get this over with.”

She hadn’t expected an audience. Five cats settled into a semicircle in the doorway, watching with expressions ranging from curiosity to what looked disturbingly like amusement.

“What?” she asked them. “Never seen someone in proper protective equipment before?”

Mr. Darcy’s tail twitched. Scout tilted her head. Ernest blinked.

“This is a reasonable precaution,” Jessica informed them through the mask. “Toxoplasmosis is a legitimate concern.”

She turned to the task. The first scoop sent her recoiling despite the mask. The ammonia scent penetrated her defenses, and the clumping litter scraped against the plastic scoop.

“Good god.”

A soft chittering sound made her turn. Mr. Darcy watched her with unmistakable hauteur, as if a creature of his breeding should never witness such undignified labor.

“I don’t see you volunteering,” she told him.

The job took twenty minutes, during which Jessica maintained a running commentary to her feline spectators. Sweat beaded her forehead by the time she tied off the third waste bag.

As she disposed of the evidence, Scout approached and rubbed against her leg, leaving a tuft of fur clinging to her protective apron.

“Is that gratitude or mockery?” Jessica asked. Scout blinked up at her before sauntering away.

Stripping off the gloves, Jessica made a mental note to call a cleaning service today, not tomorrow.

Some tasks exceeded even her considerable capabilities, and while she thought the repetition would have overcome her reluctance, the opposite seemed to be true.

Though she’d never admit it to the cats, who dispersed, visibly unimpressed by her performance.

“Next time,” she called after them, “I’m wearing a hazmat suit.”

As she headed upstairs to shower, her phone chimed with a text. Ali.

Just checking in on how everyone’s doing. Mozart was hiding yesterday - has he come out for you yet?

Jessica paused on the stairs, surprised by the small flutter in her chest at seeing Ali’s name.

She read the message twice, noting how Ali remembered every detail of their sessions together, from the specific cat who’d been struggling, to her own misgivings, which she was becoming a little more prone to sharing—something new for her.

Mozart emerged for breakfast. Mr. Darcy staged another hostile takeover of my pillow. Would tomorrow at 2 work for our next session?

Her thumb hovered over send. Was she too eager suggesting tomorrow? No, this was professional. The cats needed consistency. She hit send.

She pocketed her phone and continued upstairs.

The house felt different with the possibility of Ali’s visit tomorrow—less overwhelming somehow.

It was practical, she told herself. Having someone who understood these creatures made the situation manageable.

That flutter in her chest was just relief at having professional help.

That was all.