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• Opposites Attract
• Age Gap
• Second Chance
• Snowed In
• Rich Girl/Poor Girl
• Celebrity
• Small Town
• Found Family
• Enemies to Lovers
• Rom Com
• Coming Out Late
• Dogs and Cats!

Chapter 1

Kristi

The thing about dogs is that they are always pleased to see you, and,
with a wag of a tail and a slobbery kiss, they can ground you even after the
hardest days. I had a girlfriend with very similar attributes a while back, although
she was less loyal. It turned out she’d let anyone tickle her behind the ears.

I think I’d like to come back as a dog, not as a stray, or even a
pampered pooch being paraded around in a purse, but just as a regular family
dog: playing with the kids, protecting them from intruders and stuff. I could
be the modern day Lassie, saving everyone so they could live happily ever
after. We’d go on hikes together, or swim in the lake.

“I think I’m going to puke!”

Startled, I turn to the dark-haired woman next to me, wondering what’s
so wrong with wanting to be a dog in my next life. Realising she isn’t
telepathic, but rather about to relieve her stomach of all its contents, I grab
the flattened white paper from the seat pocket in front of me and, with one
quick flick of my wrist, snap it open. Being a quick-draw barf bag champion is
a lifesaver in my job.

One giant heave, and the passenger next to me has what looks to be
carrots shooting out her mouth and distressingly (for me at least) down her
nose. Why do carrots never digest? Even if you’ve not eaten carrots for a week,
they’re always in the mix.

“Are you okay?” I ask apprehensively. She nods then wipes the back of
her hand across her mouth, stretching a thick, gloopy line of snot and saliva.
I try not to grimace, unsuccessfully, but I doubt she notices as the next
eruption seems to start from her toes, gathering speed as it rises. Seriously,
of all the seats someone could have allocated me, they sat me here? My sigh is
silent as I rub the small of her back and pull her hair out of the corner of
the bag. Now I need a tissue. We both need a tissue, or a pack of them.

“The worst might be over,” I suggest, watching her pluck a piece of
carrot from her left nostril. Thankfully, it stuck to her finger. “Hang on, I
think I have—” With my clean hand, I pull my rucksack from below the seat in
front of me, clasping it between my knees. Rummaging in the front pocket, I
find my packet of tissues.  

“You might want this.” I offer her the tissue, which she takes with a
shy smile. Is it weird to find someone cute even when they have vomit drool
plastered over their face? I distract myself from contemplating the answer by
using another tissue from the pack to wipe my fingers. It’s not ideal but it’ll
do until I can get to the washroom.

An audible ping grabs my attention, and I look up. They have switched
the seatbelt sign off and as if by magic, my colleague Tamara appears,
shimmying up the aisle in a tight dark dress, no doubt attracted by the not so
subtle retching which has been keeping everyone entertained for the last ten
minutes.

“Is she okay?” Tamara mouths the words while looking at me, and I glance
at the woman next to me, who is still wiping thick mucus from her face. I nod,
although I imagine my expression doesn’t follow through with the positive vibe.

“Would you like some water?” Tamara asks, leaning across and tapping the
woman’s shoulder. The woman jumps, and so does Tamara, but then she nods.

“I’ll get you a glass. You’re lucky to be sitting next to Kristi. Has
she told you she’s cabin crew? She’s usually up front helping me look after all
the passengers, but she’s got herself a vacation—and she still can’t keep
away.” The woman next to me smiles, first at Tamara and then at me. Yup, even
covered in snot and regurgitated carrot, she’s cute.

“Kristi will take good care of you. I’ll just get you that water.”
Tamara winks as she turns to make her way down the aisle, and I find myself
distracted by the gentle sway of her hips.

If I’m lucky, the woman will wear herself down into some sort of
comatose slumber. I’ve never had much of a problem with sleeping on planes. I
know for some people, the idea of cramming your body into a little seat with
minimum legroom while figuring out a place to rest your head that isn’t at odds
with the rest of your body isn’t easy. But you have to take what you can get
when you’re cabin crew. Being comfortable in confined spaces is a prerequisite
of the job. Although, nowadays sleeping in the same bed for three consecutive
nights is more of a challenge.

When Tamara returns with the water, the woman takes it, offering a
“Thanks.”

“You must think I’m a fool.” She tucks her long dark hair behind her
ear, and again I get a glimpse of that smile. “I’m Ali. The world’s worst
traveler,” she jokes.

“Kristi. It’s nice to see you breathing again.” My words cause an
adorable blush to rise up her cheeks. I reckon she’s about mid-thirties, maybe
a touch more. Safe to say she’s at least five years my junior, and sweet.

“I bet you wish you’d got another seat.” Ali shakes her head, seeming a
little mortified.

“Everyone gets scared from time to time. We’ve all got hang-ups, you
know, the stuff that sets us off.” This is my standard response after someone
has clutched my hand so tightly they’ve drawn blood, or puked over my shoes.

“So, what’s your thing?” Her question catches me off guard. “What scares
you? It’s obviously not flying.”

I hesitate; I know that answer but it’s not something I’m about to
share. I don’t readily share emotions with anyone, least of all a stranger.
Plus, saying “fear of abandonment” is such a buzzkill. So, I opt for something
safe and lame. “I’m scared of spiders.”

Ali nods, watching me as though she’s assessing how much candor
underlies my claim of arachnophobia. There is a modicum of truth, I mean I
don’t like the huge hairy ones that wear Doc Martens, and run like Usain Bolt
mainlining Red Bull, but the smaller ones are okay. I even like the tiny ones.
My grandma called them money spiders. Raising her arm in the air, she’d let
them dangle, spinning and climbing, before allowing them to run over her palm.

“They’re the lucky spiders, Kristi,” she’d tell me. “Let a money spider
run over your hands and he’ll bring you good fortune.” How she knew it was a him is beyond me, but then is gender
relevant in a spider’s world? Maybe I should ask a black widow? But that was
one of the many superstitions she’d inherited from her mom, a formidable Irish
woman as wide as she was tall, with hair the color of fire. I never met my
great-grandmother, Molly, but she sounded like a character, albeit a very scary
one.

Ali yawns next to me.

“Get some rest.” I pat her hand, watching her heavy eyelids blink as she
fights to stay awake, but it’s a fight she isn’t going to win as she comes down
from the adrenalin rush. Within minutes she’s already drifting off.

I glance around the plane and start my preferred pastime while I fly and
I’m not wheeling a trolley up and down an aisle—people watching. It’s always
interesting to look at the passengers while I try to figure out who they are,
where they’re going, and why. How many people are going for business, how many
are traveling for pleasure?

There’s a young couple sitting a few rows ahead of me, both wrapped up
in each other’s arms so tightly they might not come unstuck when we land. They
might be newlyweds, on their way to the honeymoon, or maybe they just need to
get a room.

Across from them there’s a man who is a similar age to myself, early
forties, but he looks exhausted. I hope I don’t look that tired. Beside him, a
toddler is jabbing the screen of a tablet, swinging her chubby little legs
while she giggles. Unsurprisingly, the woman in the seat directly in front of
them has her headphones on. The rest of the passengers are reading, trying to
get some rest, or talking quietly amongst themselves.

I’m not used to sitting still for any length of time so with the
seatbelt signs off, and an aerophobic Ali fast asleep and snoring like a brass
band at a New Orleans wake, I take the opportunity to head to the galley to
find Tamara.

I find her loading the drinks trolley again, for what is probably the
third time, as Gael, her fellow steward, fills one thermos with coffee and
another with hot water. Curtains block my view of first class so I lean against
the galley wall, talking to them as I absently run my eyes over the passengers
through rows 18 to 29. Some have their heads down reading, while others are
tilted back in sleep. My gaze lands on the woman in 25C. There is something
about her that’s—I don’t know… Strangely familiar.

When I passed her on my way down, she’d been poring over papers and a
laptop, just as she is now. But now, as though she senses me watching her, she
lifts her head a little, and a pair of eyes, so dark they almost look black,
meet mine. It’s just for a moment, and then she looks back down at whatever she
was reading before. I barely even get a good look at her, but there’s something
about her. I can’t help but feel this isn’t the first time our paths have
crossed.

Maybe I’ve seen her on a flight before, just like this one. Most of my
routes send me south of the equator, so if she’s a frequent flyer to San José,
San Paolo or maybe even Quito, there’s every chance I’ve served her a drink.
Although, right now, unlike most passengers, all she has in front of her is
water.

The high pitched rattle of glass tells me the drinks trolley is about to
rumble up the aisle so I grab one of those tiny cans of soda and head back to
my seat, passing the beautiful occupant of seat 25C, and move on towards the
percussion section, which is Ali. I doubt she’ll wake before we land. I lean
into the aisle to see what drink my mystery woman orders from Tamara, hoping it
might jog my memory.

Tamara hasn’t reached her yet, and 25C is still flicking through papers.
She takes the tip of her forefinger and touches it against her bottom lip,
using the traction from the moisture to separate the sheets. I’ve seen her
before. I’ve seen her make that exact same movement, feverishly flicking
through sheets of paper as if she’s looking for something she can’t quite find.
It’s such a small thing, but oddly it’s the small nuances and quirks about
people I remember, never the big things. The way she moistens her finger and
then flicks the paper has a sensual quality to it. I laugh at myself. Of course
this would be what I remember.

I see thousands of people every month, and most barely make eye contact.
I reckon we’ve a finite capacity available for remembering people so when our
memory gets full, we just dump the irrelevant files to clear space for the next
lot. But 25C, in amongst the miniature bottles of bourbon and tiny packets of
nuts, with those full lips and deft fingers, I remember.

I wonder what she does? She didn’t come aboard in a pantsuit,
brandishing a briefcase like she was about to weaponize it, so I don’t think
she’s the corporate type. But she’s studious, detailed, taking her time to go
over each bit of information more than once. Whatever she’s doing, she makes it
look important.

Coffee. That’s what Tamara pours for her. Perhaps she doesn’t drink, or
maybe she is heading straight to a meeting. Perhaps she lives in San José?
Those big brown eyes and dark waves suggest a more exotic heritage than my red
Celtic roots.

Now, I don’t want you to think it’s normal for me to spend so much time
focusing on one passenger, because it isn’t. Not really, although I must admit
to being a sucker for a beautiful woman. But 25C is fascinating. She has an
intensity to her character which mesmerizes me. Although it’s a little crass, I
can’t help but wonder what kind of lover she would be. Passionate? Bold? Or a
little shy?

I’m still indulging my imagination when the seatbelt sign illuminates
with a ping. If the vibration wasn’t announcement enough, the pilot tells us
we’re experiencing some turbulence. Ali’s eyes open wide, and I offer my hand
which she gladly accepts, squeezing hard. The whole body of the plane shakes,
and my fingers drain of color as her grip tightens.

“Oh, god,” she murmurs, squeezing her eyes shut as the plane rumbles on.
“Oh, god…” 

“Relax,” I say gently. “It’s just a little turbulence.” 

“Just?” She lets out a mirthless, clipped laugh and rocks her head. “It
doesn’t feel like that, and I can’t help worry that—” 

“We aren’t going to crash. I promise. Do you know that in the U.S. about
one point seven million people fly every day? That’s like fifty-one million
flights a month, and turbulence injures only about five people, and they’re
mostly cabin crew trying to close overhead lockers, so your odds on keeping
safe are good.”

“I’m being stupid. I know I am, but I just—”

The plane shakes and with my free hand I grab the can of soda before it
launches itself over my lap. “I’ve got you. Just imagine me as your own private
bodyguard.”

The intercom dings as the plane shudders one last time, and then the
pilot speaks up. “Sorry about that, folks. We passed through some rough air
back there, but it looks like we’re through the worst of it. We should be
calmer from here on.”

A few moments later, the seatbelt sign turns dark, and the sound of
clicking seatbelts fills the cabin. Ali, unsurprisingly, doesn’t follow suit. I
doubt she’ll unbuckle her belt until we’ve come to a complete stop. The kindest
thing to do is to keep her distracted so I ask her why she’s traveling to Costa
Rica, and as the conversation flows, she visibly relaxes.

It turns out she’s an Animal Behaviorist specializing in small domestic
pets, but mainly cats, and people fly her all over the Americas to sort out
their feline catastrophes. Being a dog person myself, I can’t help wondering if
the fact that these owners appear to have more money than good sense might be
the cause of their calamities. Today she’s en route to visit a black Bombay.
I’m assuming that’s the breed because she goes on to call him Dwayne—I don’t
think she’ll need to dig too far to find the root of his issues.

She’s not married, never has been, no kids, and her last long-term
partner was a female Mexican wrestler. Interesting. It turns out there is much
more to Ali than a fear of flying and a penchant for organic carrots, and I
accept the business card she gives me, with a suggestion we meet up the next
time she’s in Denver. You have to admire a woman that still tries to pull you
after you’ve seen her snorting carrots.

As the captain announces our descent, he tells us it’s a humid
eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit in San José, and that we should land at 4:18
p.m. local time, twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

“Oh, god,” Ali says under her breath and slips her hand into mine. I
think I’ve made a new friend.

I still can’t feel my fingers over an hour later when I reach for my
rucksack on the baggage carousel. Sixty minutes with no blood flow will do that
to you. I’ve one more piece of luggage to collect, but, as usual, even though
they were checked in together they’re never unloaded together.

As I wait, I glance around the crowd. You can tell a lot about
passengers when they leave an aircraft: the speed they depart, the first place
they go, the urgency in their movements. Ali made straight for the washrooms,
confirming her as a nervous flyer, or someone with a weak bladder, but my
digits know better. Then there’s the novelty flyer whose trips are so
infrequent they become overzealous, practically sprinting from the plane to
baggage claim so they can secure that prime spot one foot away from the little
hole where bags are born. And lastly you have the frequent flyers, who are
efficient, yet chill. They don’t rush to get off the plane; they stand a little
back as bags appear because they know how to pick out their bag from the crowd
at a thousand paces. A hundred thousand air miles, or more, gives you that
level of zen.

The woman from seat 25C is a frequent flyer. She was a few feet ahead of
me as we made our way through customs, and then she slipped into the crowd of
passengers. I just catch a glimpse of her as she leaves, wheeling a small
silver case behind her. My own small silver case follows, and I lean between
two large football players standing with their arms crossed as though they were
doormen at a club. I grab the handle with one hand, swinging it sideways to fit
through the small gap between their bodies. They only seem to notice me at the
last minute and I flash a quick smile before being on my way.

I look out for 25C as I make my way out towards the taxi rank and pickup
points, but I can’t see any sign of her. Maybe she had someone waiting to
collect her. With my rucksack on my shoulders and pulling my case behind me, I
use my free hand to swipe my screen and order an Uber.

I wish I had someone coming to pick me up, I think as I step out of the
air-conditioned arrivals hall into the heat of the afternoon. The pilot wasn’t
lying when he said it was humid; the wall of moisture instantly sticks my
T-shirt to my back, but in a few hours I won’t care about that because I’ll
have a hundred distractions to keep me occupied.

Chapter 1

Jessica Taylor had built her
reputation on three principles: precision, control, and immaculate timing.
Which is why, standing outside the law offices of Weismann and Goddard on a
gusty Denver morning, staring at the broken heel of her nine-hundred-dollar
Louboutin felt like a personal attack by the universe.

“Perfect,” she muttered, glaring
at the tree grate she held solely responsible. Dark curls whipped across her
face as she balanced with the grace of someone who’d navigated far worse than a
wardrobe malfunction to become the youngest investment director in Hamilton
Trust’s history. The broken shoe was just one more irritation in a morning
already derailed by this dubious inheritance meeting to which she had been
summoned.

This stretch of 20th Avenue
straddled Uptown and Five Points, a liminal space where renovated condos sat
shoulder to shoulder with dated law offices and buildings that looked better
from a distance. The air smelled faintly of roasted coffee and last night’s
rain, and somewhere nearby, a light rail bell clanged its way into the morning.
Everything about the block whispered respectability without aspiration—exactly
the kind of place Jessica paid other people to handle on her behalf.

Slipping foldable ballet flats
from her briefcase, Jessica made the quick calculation: maintaining her dignity
was worth more than changing shoes on a public sidewalk. She always had a
contingency plan. That’s what made her so good at managing other people’s
millions.

What she couldn’t anticipate was
that in less than thirty minutes, she’d face a decision that no spreadsheet
could optimize: seven cats, one Victorian house, and an eccentric great-aunt’s
final scheme to upend her perfectly ordered life.

She’d rescheduled two client
meetings and postponed a strategy call with London for this appointment. The
email from the law firm had been frustratingly vague—something about an
inheritance—but her assistant had confirmed it wasn’t a scam.

“Ms. Taylor?”

The receptionist’s smile faltered
as she took in Jessica’s mismatched ensemble and the red-soled heels clutched
in her hand. Her gaze lingered a moment too long, a mix of recognition and
appraisal that Jessica knew well. People often did a double take when they met
her, as if reconciling the name they’d heard with the brown-skinned woman
standing before them.

“Mr. Goddard is ready for you.”

Jessica nodded once, refusing to
acknowledge either her footwear situation or the receptionist’s barely
disguised curiosity. She straightened her spine, a movement that pulled her
silk blouse taut across her shoulders and strode forward with the confidence of
someone who commanded nine-figure portfolios before her second coffee.

The office at the end of the hall
was lit entirely by two flickering fluorescent tubes, their sterile hum already
grating. There were no windows. No natural light. Just a mahogany desk, a
single framed photograph of Mount Blue Sky dusted with snow, and a white-haired
man with small rectangular glasses rising to greet her.

“Ms. Taylor, thank you for
coming. I’m Harold Goddard.” He extended his hand, and Jessica noted his firm
grip. “Please, have a seat.”

She placed her shoes, complete
with flapping heel, and briefcase beside a leather armchair. “I have a
conference call at eleven, Mr. Goddard, so I’d appreciate if we could be
efficient.”

“Of course.” He smiled, seemingly
unfazed by her briskness. “I understand you were Vivian Porter’s great-niece?”

“She was my father’s aunt, yes.”
Jessica crossed her legs, the movement automatic and precise, unconsciously
elegant even in ballet flats. “We weren’t close.” She paused, then added, “I
hadn’t seen her in years. She sent Christmas cards, usually late, with
handwriting that looked like it had been done in a moving car.”

A moment of silence followed, and
Harold Goddard blinked. Once.

“I was surprised to hear from her
estate, but not especially… affected,” Jessica added.

Vivian had been the only Porter
to skip medical school, a cardinal sin in her family’s eyes. At Taylor-Mehta
family gatherings, Aunt Vivian’s name rarely came up, except as a cautionary
tale of “wasted potential” according to Jessica’s mother. The last time Jessica
had seen her, at some cousin’s wedding over a decade ago, Vivian had worn
flowing scarves and jangling bracelets, her gray hair wild and unfettered while
everyone else was perfectly turned out.

“I see.” Goddard opened a file
folder. “Well, regardless of your relationship, your great-aunt named you as
the sole beneficiary of her estate.”

Jessica blinked, the only outward
sign of her surprise, stopping her fingers before they tightened on the leather
of the armrest. “I wasn’t aware she had an estate. The last I heard, she was
living in some rundown Victorian in Five Points.”

“Yes, that’s the property in
question. The house at four eighty-seven North Downing.” He slid a photograph
across the desk.

Jessica picked it up, studying
the three-story Victorian with its wraparound porch and ornate gingerbread
trim. The paint would have been garish had it not faded, but the architecture
was undeniably impressive. The property had possibility.

“It has been appraised at one
point two million, given its historical status and the recent gentrification of
the neighborhood.” Goddard adjusted his glasses. “There’s also a modest
investment portfolio worth approximately nine hundred thousand.”

Jessica’s fingers twitched with
the instinct to pull out her phone and check current market rates for Five
Points real estate. The neighborhood had transformed over the past decade from
neglected historic district to up-and-coming hot spot. With the right renovations,
the property value could increase by another fifteen to twenty percent within
two years. And the investment portfolio, even conservatively managed, could
yield significant returns.

“And the terms?” There were
always terms.

“Ah, yes.” Goddard cleared his
throat. “This is where matters become specific. Ms. Porter was quite detailed
in her wishes.”

Here it comes, Jessica thought, her body tensing slightly, a subtle tightening
across her shoulders that she immediately counteracted, forcing them back to
relaxed.

“You’re to take up residence in
the house for a minimum of six months and assume care of her—companions.”

“Companions?” Jessica repeated,
wariness creeping into her voice.

“Her cats, Ms. Taylor. Seven of
them.”

The silence that followed was
absolute. Jessica’s expression remained composed, betraying none of the horror
bubbling beneath her surface. Her pulse quickened, a flush of heat crawling up
her neck that she prayed wasn’t visible.

“Cats,” she finally said, the
word dropping from her lips like a dead weight.

“Yes. According to the will, you
must reside in the house and maintain the care of all seven cats for a minimum
of six-month period. If the terms are met, the house and investments transfer
to you, free and clear.”

“And if I decline?” Jessica
asked, already knowing the answer.

“Then the estate goes to the
Denver Animal Welfare Association.”

Of course it did. Jessica
suppressed a sigh. “Mr. Goddard, I live in a penthouse downtown. I work
sixty-hour weeks. I’m allergic to cats.” The last point was a slight
exaggeration; she’d never actually been tested, but it felt true in spirit.

“Ms. Porter anticipated your
reluctance.” He slid another document forward. “She’s arranged for a stipend to
cover the services of an animal behaviorist who specializes in feline
psychology. Ms. Porter was quite insistent that this particular specialist be
retained, should you accept.”

Jessica skimmed the document,
stopping at a name circled in red: Dr. Alison Ritchie, DVM, PhD, DACVIM
(Neurology), DACVB. The were more letters in her professional qualifications
than in her name. The scrawled handwriting beside it, Jessica immediately recognized
from Christmas cards, read: “Ali helps the hopeless cases. You need her.” The
ink was purple—who used purple ink anymore?

“A cat therapist?” The words came
out sharper than she intended.

“I believe Dr. Ritchie prefers ‘animal
behaviorist,’” Goddard corrected mildly. “She works with the Healing Paws
Foundation and came highly recommended by Ms. Porter.”

Jessica set the paper down, her
mind racing through calculations. The property alone was worth the
inconvenience, especially in Denver’s overheated market. Six months was
manageable. And perhaps these... creatures could be confined to a specific area
of the house. Her finger traced the edge of the paper unconsciously, pausing
over Dr. Ritchie’s name. Vivian Porter was being irritatingly demanding if
nothing else from beyond the grave.

“When would this six-month period
begin?”

“Immediately. Ms. Porter’s
housekeeper has been caring for the animals since her passing three weeks ago,
but that arrangement ends today. Ms. Taylor, we have been trying to schedule
this meeting for almost two weeks.” Goddard’s expression remained neutral, but
Jessica detected a hint of frustration mingled with curiosity. He was wondering
if she would actually go through with this.

She stood, smoothing her skirt, the
wool firm against her palms. “I’ll need to review the full documentation with
my attorney.”

“Of course. But the housekeeper
leaves at five today.” He offered a business card. “This is Dr. Ritchie’s
contact information. Ms. Porter was quite explicit that you work with her
specifically.”

Jessica slipped the card into her
pocket without looking at it. The cardstock was thick, expensive, oddly, not
what she’d expect from someone who worked with animals.

“We’ll need your decision by end
of business today, Ms. Taylor.”

“And you’ll get it,” she said,
standing to leave, briefcase in hand and shoes dangling next to them.

Outside on the sidewalk, Jessica
pulled out her phone and tapped the screen, calling her assistant, who answered
instantly.

“Zach, cancel everything after
two. I need you to find a contractor who can create a sealed, separate living
space for pets.” Her voice hardened. “And locate the best air purifiers on the
market. Money is no object.”

She glanced at her watch, then at
the card in her hand.

“Also, I need you to call this
Dr. Ritchie person and schedule an immediate consultation. I’ll send you her
number.”

Ending the call, Jessica hailed a
cab. Her day had been hijacked by her dead aunt’s cats. $2.1 million or not,
someone was going to pay for this inconvenience. As she slid into the back
seat, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her life was about to become very,
very complicated.