She growled once at me, then sat primly. Her head cocked at the tiger.
The One ordered, “Tristan, try not to hurt the bitty furball.” A shake of his collar. “Understand?”
“She’s not completely bitty, anymore,” I stated defensively. “She’s grown.”
The One waited for Tristan to huff at him before he released his collar. He flopped back onto his chair, running a hand through his hair before flicking a finger at Isolde. “That is most definitely a bitty furball. Anything smaller would be considered a cotton ball.”
Isolde flicked him an irritated glance, but she completely surprised me by standing and walking back and forth a few times in front of Tristan’s head where it now rested on the table. She eyed him from every angle, then she bent to a crouch and started crawling toward him from the side…and an inch away from him, she lifted her nose and sniffed him. Her head cocked, and she sniffed a few more times before she slowly rose. Tristan’s eyes covertly flicked to her the whole time, watching her carefully. Isolde rounded his face…and whacked him straight on his nose with her tail—a deliberate provocation to play—before she strutted down the table, eyeing the group.
“What it the world,” I muttered in awe, shaking my head. “She hated the Walker Tristan. Not to mention, she hates just about everyone.”
Yep, she almost bit Mr Damon who tried to pet her.
The One chuckled quietly, the sound laid-back. “The bitty furball is your animal of protection. While that’s ironic in itself from her size, she was still spot-on with the Walker Tristan—if she hated him and likes the real one.”
She paused in front of the One.
My brows practically lifted to my hairline as she started the same routine with him as she had Tristan, moving back and forth in front of him. Her teeny eyes slowly evaluated him as he stared back at her—just as quietly—and then she crouched down again. She crept toward his side that was farthest from the table. Isolde ducked at the very edge and sniffed the air, paused, sniffed again…and yapped at him once before placing her tiny head on her paws, watching him.
I blinked, staring wide-eyed as the One slowly lowered his fingers from his mouth while she watched the action carefully. He placed the back of his hand directly in front of her face. Instead of biting him like I thought she would instantly do, she lifted her head a smidgen, the barest bit, and placed the tip of her nose to his pinkie—sniffing him—before she rested her head back on her paws. She acted more like herself, though, when he lifted his hand and purposefully lowered it over her in an obvious attempt to pet her. She showed him her teeth, growling a tad, and he quickly pulled his hand away, two fingers back over his mouth.
She stared at him from her still position.
“Huh,” I breathed. “That’s curious. I wonder if she’s confused.”
Not moving her attention, she growled softly under her breath.
“Guess not,” I murmured, my brows coming together. But my stomach reminded me of something. I again ran my right hand over Tristan’s back, petting him softly, and glanced to Mrs Damon. This Mrs Damon I actually kind of liked. “Since I’m going to be here for a while, and since I stepped out on breakfast this morning…” My eyebrows rose. “I would love something to eat. If I remember correctly, this place has the best French silk pie.”
Her brown eyes twinkled. “That’s one of my favorites, too. I know just the place.” But her lips pinched as she glanced at my clothing. “Before we go out, may I suggest—”
“No. Thank you,” I cut her off but did it gently. “I don’t mind the stares I receive here, dressed as I am. What I do mind is being wrapped in white.”
“Well, I certainly don’t mind if you don’t.”
I stared in surprise, the difference from her Walker on this subject putting me off balance.
She stood and glanced around the table. “Would anyone else care to join us?”
Back from a decent meal, which did include the most delicious French silk pie, with only Mr Damon and Mrs Damon accompanying me—the rest declining for various business reasons—Mr Damon led Isolde and I back into the conference room. I stopped and stared at the pile of luggage in one corner of the office. The One, Reese, and Roselle were already inside the room.
I grumbled, “Isn’t that a little presumptuous?”
“Not at all,” the One murmured quietly, his back to me. He sat on the couch facing the dark windows, appearing to be reading from a book. “I like to be prepared.”
I glanced at Roselle. “Tell me some of that is yours and Reese’s, and not all his?”