The Dean by Cassie Mint
Four
James
The stairs creak as I descend the steps, holding my breath so I can strain to listen. There are no voices or thuds—no sign of another person. If the crash hadn’t woken me, I’d never have thought there was someone here.
But that crash was unmistakable. It splintered the quiet, and wrenched us both awake.
There is someone in this house.
My blood thrums in my veins as I reach the hallway, turning the corner on silent steps. Every sense is heightened, dialed up to one hundred by the adrenaline—my quick eyes pick out layers of shadow; my tensed muscles are primed to fight.
I’m a rational man. If I were here alone, I’d think this through. I’d weigh up the pros and cons of investigating the noise myself, never mind the gut impulse to charge down the stairs and reclaim my home.
But Charlotte is here. And I can’t be rational. I can’t be careful and calm when someone is threatening her, when someone dares to come into my home and fill her with fear.
Whoever is in my house had better hope they’re armed. I’m out for blood.
My bare feet are silent on the hallway rug. I keep close to the wall, where the floorboards are less likely to creak. For the dozenth time I wonder if we imagined it—if we were jerked awake by some shared hallucination. But then another crash shatters the quiet, a cacophony of china breaking against tiles.
I lunge into the kitchen, arms raised, ready to rain down fury on the intruder.
Truffle blinks at me from the kitchen floor.
The kitten is bedraggled and wide-eyed, her tiny body trembling as she huddles in a sea of shattered dishes. The drying rack is upside down against a cupboard; shards of white china litter the dark tiles like ice bergs.
“For fuck’s sake.” I scrub a hand down my face, feeling my racing heartbeat slow. There are no intruders. Just this wrecking ball of a kitten. Picking my way through the shards, I scoop her up by the scruff and hold her against my chest.
She’s terrified. Her little heart is pounding so hard I can feel it through my t-shirt, and fuck, I can’t punish a frightened animal. So for the next ten minutes, I cradle her to my chest, rubbing her gently with my thumb while I sweep up the china with the other hand. My eyes adjust to the shadows, helped by the moonlight, and it’s not long before the wreckage is cleared.
I’ll need to go over it again tomorrow, but it’s safe enough for now. Charlotte won’t slice her foot when she comes down for breakfast; that’s the important thing.
“Little hellion,” I murmur to the ball of quivering fur. She’s calming slowly, her breaths steadying. “You’re just like your owner. Did you know that? Bursting into my life and shattering my peace.”
The stairs groan as I climb back upstairs. No need to tiptoe anymore. And though I’m calming too, settled by the relief of finding Truffle, my heart still stops when I see Charlotte’s bedroom door.
It’s open.
Not just unlocked, but open. How is this—where did she—
Something rustles in my bedroom. I swallow hard, staring at my own room, my heart picking up to a steady thud. Not from fear or adrenaline this time, but because she’s there. In my space. Maybe even on mybed.
Fuck. I slam my eyes shut. Give myself a stern talking to, a reminder that she’s a frightened young woman, that she wants nothing more from me than comfort. That I’m twice her age and have none of her vibrance—I’m not a walking miracle the way Charlotte is.
“Keep it together,” I mutter to the kitten. “You got us into this mess.”
The door swings open under my palm. And Charlotte blinks at me, her knees tucked under her chin where she sits in the center of my bed. She’s on top of the covers, still in that goddamn borrowed shirt, and her hair tumbles down her back in a glossy blonde tangle. The light from my bedside lamp casts her in a warm glow, but it doesn’t hide the chalky white pallor of her face.
“James,” she whispers. “You’re okay. Oh my god.” Her arms tighten around her knees, wrapping herself in a hug.
She was that worried about me? Fierce approval roars in my chest, never mind the knock to my ego.
“Here’s our criminal.” I drop Truffle on the covers by her bare feet. The kitten lurches straight for Charlotte, making a beeline for comfort. And I should not be jealous of a tiny animal, not even when Charlotte scoops her up and peppers kisses through her fur.
“Poor baby! What happened to you?”
“I believe Truffle happened to the kitchen.”
Guilt and horror crowd Charlotte’s face, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. It doesn’t matter. They’re just dishes; they’re not worth worrying over.
“Crap. I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for the damage, I swear. You can take it out of my wages—”
I raise a palm and she falls quiet. “It’s fine, Charlotte.” She opens her mouth to argue, but I speak over her. “It’s already forgotten.”
She deflates, still so clearly on edge, and I hate this. Hate seeing her vulnerable and sad, curled up in the expanse of my bed.
That’s why I do it. At least, that’s the excuse I give myself. Why I pause for a moment, watching her, then round the bed and climb on behind her. I shuffle up to lean against the headboard, still firmly above the covers, and hold up one arm.
“Come here.”
She scrambles to me so eagerly, just like Truffle lurching towards her legs, the kitten held beneath her chin. And when Charlotte settles against my side, my arm draped around her shoulders, she lets out a tiny, blissful sigh.
It means nothing. It’s comfort, nothing more. But that doesn’t stop my chest from rioting. I lie there, rigid, cursing my own idiocy for thinking I could hold Charlotte like this and not let slip my feelings.
She’s Parker’s daughter.I clear my throat, shuffling to put half an inch between us. Charlotte’s father and I have been friends since college; I was the best man at his wedding. If he saw us now—if he knew how greedily I breathe in her scent; how my blood heats to have her near—
“Alright. Better go back to your room,” I rasp. But neither of us move. Charlotte scoots closer, resting her head on my chest, and Truffle marches across my abdomen.
“It’s cold in there,” she murmurs at last.
Fuck. Have I been neglecting her again? “I’ll check the heating,” I tell her quickly. “And we have spare blankets—”
“No, I mean. It’s not that kind of cold. It’s…” She pauses. Huffs a breath. “It’s lonely.”
My grip tightens on her shoulder. I shouldn’t do it. I’ll go straight to hell if I do—
“Sleep here, then.” She hums and rubs her cheek against my chest, and God, if Truffle’s tiny claws weren’t kneading me I’d swear this was a dream. “Just for tonight.”
“Thank you, James,” she whispers, so quiet.
Goddamn it.
I’ll never make it to morning.