He glances my way but avoids my eyes, gently taking the pepper from my hand. “A hedgehog? Sounds dangerous. All those needles.”

“On the surface, Cornelius might seem daunting. But prickly things often turn out to have the softest insides.”

Jamie’s eyes meet mine. “How did you figure that out?”

“Time,” I tell him. “And patience. And bubble baths.”

He almost laughs, but the sound stays subdued, warm and rumbly in his throat. “Bubble baths, eh? I wish that worked for me, but these two won’t hear talk of a bath.”

“Do you and the cats get along?” I ask.

The gray one gives me death eyes. Then she bares her needle teeth. I shudder.

“We do,” Jamie says, calling me back from his cat’s telepathic death threats. “They don’t seem to mind that I have long hours periodically. I keep the heat on the high side and they have cat beds set in the south-facing windows, so they get as much sun to nap in as possible. They seem happy enough when I’m home.”

“They totally sleep with you, don’t they?”

An almost smile tugs at his mouth. “We may cuddle in bed sometimes.”

As I set the last of the rinsed produce on a towel to dry, I watch Jamie sorting his ingredients, the exact, ordered manner of his movements. Everything about him feels precise and deliberate. It makes me curious if there’s a wild side tucked away in one of those crisp emotional pockets. It makes me a teensy bit determined to find out.

“You look like you’re plotting,” he says, selecting a cookbook from a thin shelf overhead. “Strategizing for what’s ahead?”

“Something like that.”

Our gazes snag. Jamie breaks eye contact first, clearing his throat. “Well. Why don’t you go relax now?”

“I’d rather have a cupcake.”

He bites back something, then clears his throat again. “If you must. Though, fair warning, if you take it to the sofa, Sir Galahad and Morgan le Fay will probably come meowing for it.”

“I’m sorry, what are their names?”

Then it happens. It actually happens. Jamie smiles. It’s soft and small and crooked, but it’s there. I watch it unfurl, and my heart morphs into a gilded balloon that bursts, a shower of gold-leaf glitter sparkling in my chest.

“I was fascinated with Arthurian legend as a kid,” he says, leafing through the cookbook. “I always wanted cats to name Sir Galahad and Morgan le Fay. But we were only allowed dogs named boring things like Bruno and Jasper—”

“Jasper?”

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t get to name them. With these cats, this is my first chance.”

I peer up at him, the last golden flurries settling beneath my ribs. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s a bit juvenile, but it made me happy.” He shrugs. I’ve decided it’s called a Jamie Shrug. One neat lift of his shoulder.