by Cate Conte
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Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
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For the animal rescuers, who sacrifice themselves daily for the greater good of our furry friends. You are loved and appreciated.
Acknowledgments
I can’t believe this series is three books in already. This book was a fun one to write, and it was also incredibly difficult, as I was writing it during one of the biggest heartbreaks of my life, losing my best friend - my schnoodle, Shaggy. She gave me unconditional love and support for almost a decade, and she was a huge part of my writing career. I will be forever grateful for her presence in my life, and though we didn’t have nearly enough time, I will cherish every minute of it. Love you, Shags.
As always, I’m so grateful to my agent John Talbot for advocating for this series and making sure it got to this place. Big thanks to my editor(s) at St. Martin’s, Hannah Braaten and Nettie Finn, for making it a way better book. And the rest of the awesome team at St. Martin’s, especially my cover artist for capturing JJ so well.
When I first moved to Connecticut, I lived on the eastern side of the state, in a place I didn’t always love. If nothing else, I had some interesting experiences there! One of those experiences was a man who lived in town who everyone had dubbed “Leopard Man.” Much like the character I created, he walked around town in leopard-print gear from head to toe. Unlike the character I created, the real Leopard Man came from a dark, challenging place. I wanted to capture a quirky character and put a different face on him - make him the hero that the real Leopard Man never got to be. I hope you enjoy reading my version of this character.
And thanks to my Wicked Author sisters, Jessie Crockett/Jessica Ellicott, Sherry Harris, JA Hennrikus/Julia Henry, Edith Maxwell/Maddie Day, and Barbara Ross. Always my biggest support system. I love you ladies.
Thanks for reading!
Chapter 1
“How do you suppose he can work with all this noise?” I nodded over the rim of my coffee cup at the guy sitting at one of the larger tables in my cat cafe, JJ’s House of Purrs. “He hasn’t even looked up from that computer, even when it sounded like they were taking down the wall right next to him. I mean, I’m glad he’s here drinking our coffee and eating our pastries, but wow. That’s some concentration.”
“Hmm?” My sister Val glanced up, distracted, from her cell phone, where she tapped out a text. I’d convinced her to have a cup of coffee with me since she’d stopped home in the middle of the afternoon, but she clearly wasn’t very engaged in our sister time. “What’d you say?”
“Jeez, you too?” I sighed and set my cup down on the nearest table. We’d opened the French doors between the living room and cafe room, and Val and I were camped out in the living room so as not to disturb my single guest. I didn’t even have to whisper so he wouldn’t hear us, the banging was so loud. “I wish I could ignore the noise. I’d be getting so much more done right now. I know it’s better to do all this now instead of during the season when we’re busy, but I just wish it was all done. You know, the banging? In case you hadn’t noticed?” I waved a hand around to indicate the sawing, hammering, and general construction noise from the other side of Grandpa Leo’s house. The work was necessary to fully convert the first floor into the layout I’d envisioned for the cafe, and for all intents and purposes it was going extremely well. But regardless, living in a construction zone wasn’t the most peaceful way to exist. Not for me, and certainly not for the feline residents of our cat cafe.
Aside from dust, errant nails, and new hidey-holes where I could lose a cat without even trying, the holes-in-my-walls thing just didn’t do it for me. Yes, I was a perfectionist, and yes, I liked everything just so, but who could blame me? Especially when it came to my places of business. And my house. Which, at this juncture in my career, were one and the same.
“If you’re gonna live in California, you’ve gotta get a little bit more laid back, Maddie,” my business partner, Ethan Birdsong, used to tell me all the time back in San Francisco.
Despite ten years there, that laid-back thing hadn’t really sunk in for me. I guess I was an East Coaster at heart.
Val’s thumbs raced over her keyboard, then with a final swish indicating her message was sailing to its recipient, she turned back to me. “Say that again? Oh, right. The noise. It’s not that bad.” She shrugged. “It will certainly be better than the ad hoc design we had before. Cats basically hanging out in the house with some extra tables and chairs.”
In her usual acerbic way, she was right about that. I’d opened the cat cafe along with Ethan and Grandpa as a joint business venture in a hurry over the summer, hoping to take advantage of the last push of the high season here in my hometown of Daybreak Harbor, on an island just off the coast of Massachusetts. Our efforts had been successful, despite the fact that we’d basically moved the cats into Grandpa’s house as is and hoped for the best.
But the house had been designed as, well, a house, and over a hundred years ago at that. Despite some remodels over the years, it still had the same basic design, and that design wasn’t a cafe with additional rooms and cubbies built for cats. So now the “cat cafe” was what used to be our dining room, when Grandma was alive and we had Sunday dinners. Now the dining room had been relocated to, well, wherever we ended up eating.
But soon it would be set up like a real cat cafe and the rest would be a real house. If we all lived through the remodel.
“True, but at least we got to open before the summer people left,” I countered. “It was good to get our name out there while all the vacationers were still on the island. We’re in good shape for next year. Especially with the good press.” My best friend, Becky Walsh, had been instrumental in that. As the editor of the Daybreak Island Chronicle, she’d gotten JJ’s House of Purrs front-page press when we opened, dubbing it “the genius brainchild of the island’s prodigal daughter, entrepreneur Maddie James.”
And my cat JJ had gotten even more press, which delighted me to no end. He’d had his own profile in the Chronicle, and to everyone’s delight, the Boston Globe had even run a short piece on the cafe in their Sunday edition, with JJ in the featured photo. The feel-good story of how he’d appeared at my grandmother’s graveside and basically adopted me over the summer and later inspired the cat cafe idea appealed not only to animal lovers but to anyone who was tired of bad news all the time. JJ had become quite the little orange celebrity.
I won’t lie, the publicity was kind of awesome. And genius brainchild? What could beat that label?
“Yeah, I guess it was good you made it work for the tourist season.” Val eyed the customer in question, who was still bent over his computer, completely fixated on whatever he was doing, pausing every so often to scribble in a black Moleskin notebook on the table next to him. Jasmine, our resident black-and-white long-haired cat, had curled herself contentedly into his lap. I might’ve thought he didn’t even know she was there, except that every so often he absently reached down and stroked her head.
/> Val nodded in his direction. “Anyway, he probably needs to be able to concentrate in his line of work. It must be second nature.”
I gave her a blank stare. “You know him?”
“Know him?” Val looked at me like I had two heads. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”
“I don’t know, me?” I said, exasperated. “Who is he?”
“That’s the writer guy who comes here every summer.”
“Writer?” I looked back at him with interest. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t place the face, although he admittedly was handsome. Dark wavy hair that he wore unkempt, full lips that were slightly off-kilter, and killer blue eyes behind a pair of small wire-rimmed glasses. “Really? What’s he write?”
Val rolled her eyes at my continued oblivion. “I can’t believe you don’t know him. That’s Jason Holt.”
Chapter 2
It took a minute, but it finally clicked in my not-caffeinated-enough brain. “The thriller writer? The one who wrote Keep My Secrets? You’re kidding.” The crime thriller about a family who had vanished without a trace, and the long-lost daughter searching for them, had also been turned into a movie—and had been an integral component of one of my best dates with Lucas Davenport, the gorgeous dog groomer and recent transplant to the island who I’d been seeing. He was practically my boyfriend, although I hadn’t been bold enough to use the term yet. The movie hadn’t been half-bad, either.
How had I not realized Jason Holt had been my cafe regular for the past few weeks? Although in my defense, I’d never paid much attention to the man behind the books. Who knew my sister was such a fiction author expert?
“I think on his website he doesn’t have glasses on,” Val said. “But still, you didn’t recognize him at all?”
“Nope.” I shook my head at my own cluelessness. “He’s been coming in here for a while. He asked if he could work in here for a hundred bucks a day and wouldn’t hear it when I said that was too much since we’re not even open a full day. He just said to kick him out when I close. He even pays a week in advance and I was happy for the extra cash. I can’t believe I didn’t realize.”
“You didn’t have him sign in?”
I thought back. Usually people registered online for a slot, but that was when it was busy and we had to limit the amount of guests in order to not stress out the cats. I hadn’t bothered asking him to go through that process since I had only a couple people coming in these days, usually my island regulars who’d found a favorite cat they liked to visit. And with everything else going on, online schedulers weren’t exactly top of mind. “I’m pretty sure I had him sign my guest book one day, but I didn’t even look at it.” I mentally kicked myself. “I think he did tell me his name was Jason, but that wasn’t enough to get my attention.”
Although he probably liked that I hadn’t fawned all over him. After all, if he was on Daybreak Island over the winter, he probably wanted peace and quiet. It was a completely different island than in the summertime. I felt a stab of excitement. Maybe he was working on his next book or screenplay. I could already see my new marketing materials, announcing that my cat cafe was the place where the famous Jason Holt wrote his latest best-selling book or blockbuster TV series script. I should have JJ sit with him for some photos. That would definitely propel my already famous cat into the next level of kitty stardom. I looked around but didn’t see JJ anywhere. Of all the times to be sacked out in my bed taking a nap.
Maybe I could get Holt to come back for some promo once the new book launched and the movie came out. I swooned a little bit thinking of the quote: Some of my best plot twists for this book came while I was sitting at JJ’s House of Purrs with a cat cuddling on my lap.
“Well, have you talked to him at all?” Val asked.
I shoved my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and averted my eyes. “Yeah, to take his order.”
“Nothing? Not even a friendly ‘What brings you to the island in the winter?’” Val pressed. “That’s some customer service you’ve got here.”
I sent her a withering look. “I’ve had a lot on my mind. Plus, I think the hammering addled my brain.” But now I wanted to talk to him for sure. He seemed to love cats, and that was pretty cool, too. I glanced over at him again. We were talking in low voices and he was far enough away that he probably couldn’t hear us, but either way, he definitely wasn’t paying attention. His focus was on his work. Which I guess made sense, since he had so many devoted fans waiting for his next masterpiece. I wondered if I should strike up a conversation now. Ask him what he was working on.
A ping sent Val’s focus back to her phone. “Who are you talking to?” I demanded.
“Ava-Rose.” Val heaved a dramatic sigh. “This Thanksgiving party at the marina Mom recommended me for. It’s like a twenty-four-seven job.”
“Ava-Rose Buxton? She knows how to text?” I almost felt sympathy for my sister. Ava-Rose was an island legend: rich, needy, and vocal. She had lived here her entire life, part of a long line of Buxtons who called Daybreak their home. She’d also managed to coerce three (four?) husbands to live here with her until she ultimately and quite literally voted them off the island.
And despite her numerous plastic surgeries and constant visits to the hairdresser to keep her looking young and fabulous, she had to be pushing eighty. Maybe more. She basically looked the same as she had when I’d left the island for college, which I found a little disturbing, but it seemed to work for her.
“Of course she knows how to text. And call. And track me down no matter where I am. And she knows I need a rave recommendation because it’s one of my first real jobs,” Val said. “So I have to suck it up. She doesn’t believe in doing favors for friends.”
Val had taken a bold step and created her own party-planning business last month, on the heels of her possibly bolder step of filing for divorce from her husband, the not-so-charming Cole Tanner.
But her new life was working for her. Val was happier than I’d seen her in years. She smiled more, and she seemed more engaged her in life, as if she was actually, finally, pleased to be living it. She’d even changed her hair, cutting her long, reddish-brown locks into a stylish, chin-length, layered look with bold red highlights. She’d been mixing up her wardrobe, trading in the boring, preppy style she’d adopted when she’d started living like a Tanner for a funkier, hipper look with bold jewelry and bright colors. And even when she was exasperated with someone or something, she still had that glow of someone who had found her place.
She was also living here at Grandpa’s with us. She’d come to stay when she first moved out of the house she’d shared with Cole, and had never left. It helped that she was completely in love with Ethan, my business partner, and he with her, in another surprising turn of events this summer. It was kind of weird that they were theoretically living together already, since he lived here, too, at the moment, but it seemed to work for them.
I was happy for her.
I grinned. “Who knew the James girls were such entrepreneurs?”
“I know. We kind of rock.” Val grinned back. “I have to go bring some linen samples to Ava-Rose. I’ll see you later. Hey, when Ethan comes back will you tell him where I went?”
“Of course. I know he’ll find it hard to be without you for the next hour,” I teased.
Val turned bright red and smacked my arm.
“Ow. Hey, it’s cute,” I said. “I like that you and Ethan are an item. Just don’t break up with him and make him move back to California.”
Ethan had been a rock for her during the divorce, which we’d all known had the potential to get ugly. Their relationship had grown from there, and grown quickly. I’d definitely been a bit hesitant about the whole thing, since it seemed soon and sudden, but I get that I’m kind of a commitment-phobe and other people have an easier time jumping in and out of relationships.
Val’s face turned serious. “Don’t say that. I want this to work.”
The door to the cafe opened and a woman
stuck her head in. “Hello? Are you open?”
I hurried over to greet her. “Hello! Yes, please come on in.”
“Oh, thank you. It’s already so cold out. And I heard a storm is coming.” The woman stepped all the way inside, letting the door bang shut behind her. She pulled off her bright red parka and her slouchy knit hat, letting loose a nest of frizzy graying brown curls. She ran a self-conscious hand through them. She wore a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, which dwarfed her small frame and made her look like a displaced farmer. Her hiking boots had seen better days.
“I heard that, too.” I wrinkled my nose. “A nor’easter. A hazard of this time of year on the island. Hopefully it’s just a lot of hype. So what can I do for you?”
“I really wanted to visit with some cats. I’ve heard a lot about this place. But I don’t have an appointment.” She looked worried. “Is that all right?”
“Of course,” I assured her, lifting my hand in a wave to Val, who slipped out the door. “I keep a strict schedule in the summer season, when there are a lot of people around. I don’t want the cats to be overwhelmed by having too many people in here at once. But when most people leave the island for the winter, it’s a lot more manageable.”
“Excellent.” The woman dropped her bag and rubbed her hands together. “How much do I owe you?”
“An hour with the cats is fifteen dollars.” I glanced over at the writer, wondering if he’d jump up and demand a refund for the overpayment, but he hadn’t even seemed to realize anyone else had come in.
That must be some book he was working on.
The woman reached into her pocket and handed me a ten and a five. “So how many cats do you keep here?”
“Usually ten at a time. That’s Muffin,” I said, when she stopped to pet the orange-and-white guy tucked into a ball on a window seat. Muffin opened one eye and regarded her, then went back to sleep.
