He blinks rapidly, a deep groove etched in his brow, like I’ve confused him, saying that. “Well . . . thank you.” He returns his hands to the shopping cart. I watch his knuckles turn white. “Right. Shall we check out, then?”

I cannot get enough of his speech. Shall we? He sounds straight from the tower of historical romances on my nightstand, and it makes me smile in spite of myself. I hoist the basket tighter in my arms, value-sized lube and overnight pads for all to see. “I believe we shall.”

—

As Jamie shuts the door to his apartment behind me, two hefty furballs amble toward us, emitting meows that are more like howls of the dying. Or maybe they are dead. And haunting us. Zombie cats. That’s it. They have that undead sway going on.

“What’s up with the fur babies?” I ask.

Jamie strolls past me, arms laden with reusable bags—of course—and sets them carefully on the counter. The cats lumber past me and twine around his legs, throwing me suspicious feline glances.

“What about them?” he says.

I watch them warily. One is gray with misty pale blue eyes, the other with mint green irises and long white fur. Their stares bore into me. “They seem a little . . . hostile?”

“Hardly. They’re easygoing seniors.” Unpacking a bag of produce, Jamie sets everything in a neat pile by type on the counter.

“Have you had them since they were kittens?”

“Not as such. They’re fairly recent additions.”

“So they’re the old cats from the shelter that nobody wanted and were about to get euthanized.” Sweet Jesus, if he rescued these cats—

Jamie clears his throat, then says, “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Dammit. First, he’s a baby doctor. Now, he rescues zombie cats in their hour of undead need. Ugh.

Then it gets worse. He grabs the back of his sweater and drags it off, temporarily ruffling those tidy bronze waves. He smooths down his hair, then unbuttons his cuffs and proceeds to roll the sleeves up to his forearms. Flicking on the water, he scrubs his hands in a way that I can tell is his habit, staring off, following an order of operations that reveals veins and tendons beneath a faint dusting of bronze-blond hair. My knees wobble a little.

Jesus Christmas, fortify, Beatrice!

Marching up to the sink, I step in and wash my hands after him, then reach to take over rinsing the produce. “I’ll handle this,” I tell him. “You do your culinary thing.”

He frowns at me. “You’re sure? You’re feeling unwell and—”

“Jamie.” I nudge him with my hip. “I’ve dealt with this every month for fourteen years. I’m a pro. Doing something is a good distraction. And I promise, I won’t blow anything up. No glass to shatter, no liquids to spill. Just vegetables to wash. I’m fine. Go. Chef away.”