Page 109 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

“What the?—”

Then she hops down and lands, light as a feather, in my lap, where she curls up into a cute, warm ball.

“Did you lie about the cat hating you and being evil?” Paige asks.

“Nope.” I gaze down at the purring lump in my lap. “This has to be a trap.”

“Or you misjudged her.”

And she raises her eyebrows in that knowing way she has.

Too scared to push my luck and venture a stroke, I just stare at Thelma for a moment, watching her body silently rise and fall.

Silently.

There isn’t another sound in this room.

Hang on a second.

“What’s up?” Paige asks. “You look puzzled.”

I turn my attention to the sink.

“The kitchen tap’s not dripping anymore.”

“Thelma,” I shout into the darkness. “Thelma!”

She’s been so strange all day. And now, after I’ve put the donkeys to bed, I can’t freaking find her.

I wander toward the barn, shining my phone light in front of me in case she headed this way looking for her beloved Miller. Guess she was as wrong about him as I was.

Ah. A mewing sound. From behind the feed shed. What the hell is she doing there?

I round the corner to find her just sittingthere, meowing.

I crouch beside her. “Are you not feeling well or something?”

Just the thought of her maybe being sick fills me with dread. But she looks at me and mews again, seemingly perfectly fine.

“I’m going to have to pick you up and take you inside.” I gird my loins for the potential of an imminent hissy-scratchy attack.

As I reach for her, my phone light catches something odd on the back of the shed.

One of the panels is newer, shinier. And it’s decorated.

Its surface is smooth, almost satinlike under my touch, and there’s a neat ridge all around the edge. At one end, the shape of a flower looks like it’s been burned into the surface. Nearer the center, there’s a checkerboard pattern made from darker and lighter woods that have been set into it. I close my eyes and run my fingers over it. The work has been done so neatly that I can’t feel the seams. Then, carved into the other end, is a row of three carrots, complete with dark leafy tops.

This has Miller written all over it. Or rather, burned, inlaid and carved all over it.

My throat tightens as a bittersweet ache blooms in my chest.

This is beautiful. Stunning.

It makes the machine detailing on any of the wood furniture I’ve seen at work look like exactly what it is—made by robots in a factory following a pattern so all ten thousand pieces match perfectly.

When Miller said his grandad taught him woodworking and he’d started to train as a carpenter, I had no idea that included such finely detailed work as this. Or that he was this talented.

While my eyes prick with tears, a smile also forms on my lips as I run my fingers over the ridges of the carrots. What a thing to choose to include.