“It may or may not work,” I warn. “We can always go to Mari’s.”
“Nonsense. It’ll be great,” Pat says, dodging the dogs, whose baser natures have been activated by the scent of raw beef. He pulls the grill to a stop. After examining the front for a second, he turns a knob and a hissing sound can be heard. Pat pushes a button. There are a few clicks and then a whoosh. He turns to me with a smile. “We’re in business!”
Suddenly there is another noise—a kind of scrabbling, scratching sound from inside the grill. “Is that … normal?” I ask.
Amber and Beast start barking, probably trying to hurry the steak-cooking process along. The scratching gets louder. And is that a squeak?
Pat stares at the grill. “Huh.”
Holding the plate of steaks higher to avoid the dogs, Pat lifts the top of the grill, then immediately jumps back as not one but multiple squirrels leap out of the grill directly onto his body.
Three—count them, three!—squirrels, singed with tails still smoking, run up Pat’s chest like it’s a climbing wall.
I didn’t know Pat had the ability to scream like a little girl, but he does. Loudly.
Amber leaps on Pat, going either for the squirrels or the steaks, and Pat flings the whole plate, still screaming and pinwheeling his arms.
The squirrels use Pat’s shoulders as a launchpad, leaping off and scampering away, thin wisps of smoke trailing behind their blackened tails. Beast and Amber sprint after them, pausing only long enough to grab the steaks. And there goes our dinner.
I still had my phone camera open and, in the confusion, somehow switched to video, recording the whole thing. I’ll be really thankful for that later, but I probably won’t mention it to Pat, who is still dancing around, aggressively brushing at his shirt. Which has tiny, soot-stained footprints up the front and on the shoulders.
“Are they gone? Are they gone?” Pat asks, his eyes wild.
“They are.”
“Along with dinner,” Jo says, and I realize in the confusion, she dropped the foil packet and now vegetables are scattered in the dirt along with the remnants of the broken steak plate.
“Maybe we should go out to dinner,” I suggest as my stomach moans an agreement.
“Yes, please,” Pat says, switching off the grill. “But first, I need to change. And then burn this shirt.”
Before Pat takes two steps toward the house, Jo stops him where he stands, looking deadly serious. “You need to check first for cuts and scratches. Squirrels can carry rabies.”
And that is how I end up in Pat’s bedroom, examining his bare chest in close detail. Close, close detail. To make sure I was extra thorough, Jo gave me her magnifying glass. Because the naked-eye visual of Pat’s body wasn’t enough. Nope. I needed the magnified version.
“I think you might have missed something over here,” Pat says, grinning and pointing to his right pec. He flexes it up and down like it’s waving hello.
“I hope you have rabies. I really do. It will totally serve you right.”
His left pec joins in, and now it’s like a two-ring pec circus. Lucky me—I’m getting a free show.
“For what? What am I doing, Lindy?”
You’re taunting me with your glorious body. Trying to wear down my resolve at its weakest point.
But also: infusing laughter into my day. Making everything feel brighter and lighter. I hadn’t realized how lonely I sometimes felt with just me and Jo. Or how utilitarian I had become, just focused on what each day’s tasks were and what I had to do. Bringing Pat into my life was like turning up both the saturation settings and the volume. I feel almost like a new person—and this is after only a few days.
“Maybe you should check my back too,” Pat suggests, turning around.
Though abs and chests tend to get the lion’s share of attention when it comes to what women seem to like on a man, Pat’s back is no less a work of art. And without his eyes on me, I can really look. Not for squirrel scratches. No, I’m looking the way I’d imagine an art dealer examines a new painting, trying to decide if they should sell it or keep it for their private collection.
He shifts, and the muscles bunch and ripple in an entrancing way. Definitely the private collection.
“See anything?” he asks.
Too much. Way too much. “No scratches. I guess we’re done.”
Pat turns back to me, and were we always standing this close? “You didn’t check my shoulders.”
“What? I did. With a magnifying glass.”
He shakes his head, and I want to kiss that smirk right off his face. That would teach him!
“The tops of my shoulders. Those evil tree rats leaped off my shoulders. If they scratched me, it would be there.”
I look up, and then up. I’m not short, but Pat is TALL. Tall enough that I definitely can’t see the tops of his shoulders. He seems to already know this and looks way too smug about it. He’s like a smug factory, producing smug at levels way above the government restrictions.
“I’ll just sit on the bed, and you can get behind me and—”
“Nope. No beds. Rule number … whatever.” My mind has gone blank, and I can’t remember which of the rules addresses me and Pat and beds.
“I think you mean rule number four,” Pat says. “But that one only refers to shared bedrooms and shared beds.”
“It applies.” I grab the wooden chair from the corner and drag it over. It’s a little rickety, but it’s better than me getting on a bed with Pat. I know Jo is downstairs and her presence would prevent any major mistakes, but I feel like all Pat needs is an inch and he’s going to take a mile. If I break and kiss him, for example, I think it may all be over.
And that would be bad, why?
The reasons why are getting a little hazy, like I’m looking at them in the rearview mirror through thick fog. Which is why I need to stand on this chair rather than go near a bed with Pat.
“Whoa. You sure that’s safe?” Pat asks as I climb up. His hands hover near my hips, poised to steady me, and I brush them away.