Page 25 of Broken Trails
Wattle Creek’s Animal Hospital’s just around the corner, and Isla’s good for a quick chat—or at least for letting me pat whatever stray she’s added to her collection.
What I don’t expect is to be greeted by a cat. A ginger one, of all bloody colours.
It’s draped across the reception desk like it pays rent here, tail flicking slow, eyes half-lidded, looking at me like I’ve already disappointed it.
Regal in that smug, you’ll never be as important as me kind of way. Isla rounds the corner, gripping a clipboard. Her eyes widen slightly when she spots me.
“Michael? What are you doing here?”
“Bakery was packed,” I say with a shrug, stepping further into the clinic. “Figured I’d kill some time and drop by since you’re just around the corner, and, let’s be honest, there’s always something odd going on in here.”
I nod toward the ball of fluff perched on the reception desk. “Who’s this?”
Isla follows my gaze. “Oh, she’s our newest addition. Maine Coon.”
I lift a brow at the kitten. “She’s so fucking tiny.”
She chuckles. “Oh, don’t be fooled. Maine Coons are massive once they’re grown. She’ll be the size of a small dog before you know it.”
I crouch down a little, leaning closer to the kitten. Her fur looks impossibly soft, a rich, warm auburn that catches the light like fire. Her eyes are wide and wary, and her little face is heartbreakingly sweet. I lean in closer, inspecting its small features.
And then I do a double-take.
“Are those…” I trail off, pointing to the bridge of my own nose.
Isla follows my finger, already smirking. “Freckles? Yup.”
Sure enough, scattered like cinnamon dust across its bridge are the tiniest freckles. I lean in, squinting. The resemblance hits me like a sucker punch. It’s almost absurd how much thiskitten reminds me of her—my mystery woman—but I keep that thought to myself, obviously.
“She’s rare,” Isla says, watching me curiously. “Came in two days ago. Some woman, new in town, brought her in—a little dishevelled but polite nonetheless.
My spine goes rigid. I school my face quickly. It… couldn’t be. Still, the pieces shuffle together too neatly. Dishevelled woman. New in town. And now a cat that looks like it crawled out of her shadow. No. I shut the thought down fast. What are the chances, though?
I step back as the cat stretches, gives me a once-over, then lets out a throaty meow as she approaches me. Isla chuckles again. “She’s been temperamental as hell. Feisty. Bites everyone except me. I guess she likes you.”
My gaze lingers on the cat as it jumps down and brushes up against my leg, purring like it’s got a motor buried somewhere under its fur. This is getting ridiculous. It’s a cat. A bloody coincidence.
Isla’s assistant walks in then, carrying a stack of files, and freezes when she spots me. Her cheeks bloom pink. “Hi, Michael.”
I offer a nod. “Hey.”
Her eyes flick toward the car park. “Did you bring your bike today?”
“Nah, just a work car.”
Her pout is immediate, theatrical. “That’s a shame.”
Is it? I glance away, suddenly intrigued by the tile pattern on the floor. She’s young, but definitely not for me. I reach down to touch the kitten, who lets out a loud, unapologetic meow and shoves its head against my forearm with surprising insistence. I shift slightly, but she holds her ground—tail flicking, ears forward.
Isla lifts a brow. “Okay, that’s new. She barely lets me touch her.”
Straightening, I look down as the cat circles once, tail flicking proudly, before settling at my feet like it’s chosen me.
Of course she has.
Fiery, unpredictable, and with the same impossible colouring and freckles as the woman I haven’t stopped thinking about since she stormed out of the bakery this morning.
Bloody hell.
