The Hot One

I brush my fingers along his forearm then drag one over the top of his hand. His eyes darken with heat, and I like knowing I still affect him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you were going to tell me about the cat with superpowers. Spill the beans, Nichols.”


“Ah, yes,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Seems I have something you want.” He moves in closer, and the temperature in me rises. “You really want to know about the pussycat on the TV show?”

“I do want to know,” I say, breathily.

He brushes the hair from my neck, and I shiver from his touch. “You won’t tell a soul?”

“I promise.” My voice is feathery soft, and maybe I’m the one who’s putty. Because he melts me. He just fucking melts me with every little touch.

“Swear?”

I make an X over my chest, and he follows the path of my fingers, lingering on the tops of my breasts. The weight of his stare makes my nipples hard. My God, this man. I want him to touch me. It’s so damn difficult to last more than a few minutes with him without longing for contact, for the intensity of the physical. He bends his neck, brings his mouth near my ear. I draw a quick breath as he whispers, “Mind control.”

I swat his chest. “Get out of here.”

“Scout’s honor,” he says with a believe-me grin. “Cat Crazypants, the Great Illusionist, has sick powers of mind control. His paws also are like suction cups so that he can climb the sides of tall buildings. He uses them to vanquish the forces of evil.”

“Be still my heart—a do-gooder. Don’t tell me he can fly, too.”

He scoffs. “He’s an animated cat with kickass superpowers, Delaney. Of course he can fly.”

I grin, loving these details. Maybe it’s the little girl in me, who gobbled up fairy tales once upon a time. Perhaps as an adult I’ve graduated to late-night cartoons and naughtier shows. But the common thread remains—a little bit of magic to grease the way out of a bad situation. Magical stories have always been my escape. “I can’t believe I have all the classified intel on Cat Crazypants.” I shift gears slightly. “I’ve been thinking about adopting a cat. Maybe I should name him Cat Crazypants.”

“Let me ask a question. If you’re already picking out names, why don’t you have the cat yet?”

I shrug then toss out a possibility. “I have commitment issues?”

Yeah, the wine is definitely working. I don’t usually blurt stuff out. I don’t serve up my emotional baggage on a platter while out on dates. Or maybe it’s not just the wine. Perhaps I can speak freely with Tyler because he knows this already. He’s well aware that I’ve struggled with closeness thanks to mom and dear old dad.

“I know all about your commitment issues,” he says with a laugh, and I’m relieved he can joke. “You’ll just have to take it slow, then, with your someday feline companion.”

“I don’t know if taking it slow works when you adopt a cat. You can’t really try it out. You need to be ready to take the plunge.”

“That is true. You definitely can’t date a cat,” he says.

“Also, I want a cuddly cat, and that’s hard to find.”

“Fuck, woman. You’ve got quite a long list of requirements in a pussycat.” His brown eyes sparkle like he knows we’re talking about more than domestic animals right now. I suppose I do have a list, but what modern woman doesn’t? I want what I want—the very best man.

I mean cat.

I want a good cat.

That’s all I want. Four legs, a tail, and one that won’t pee on the floor or scratch the furniture. Is that so much to ask? Sure, the extra toes would be fun and all, but that’s like asking for eight inches in a man. Ideal, but hard to find. I raise my wine glass. “To the quest for a perfect six-toed cat,” I say, offering my glass for clinking. He tips his beer glass to mine.

After I swallow the rest of the Reisling, another wave of warmth sweeps over me and threatens to tear down my defenses.

But these defenses exist for a reason.

Cats have claws.

And cat analogies seem fitting right now. Felines seduce you. They ask to be petted. Then they unleash those claws.

Cats can hurt you.

This is the man who hurt me. This is the guy who coldly left me with barely an explanation. I know someone else who did that too—my dad did that to my mom, and I haven’t seen or talked to the person who’s responsible for half my DNA in nearly a decade. I eye my nearly empty glass. “I better slow down.”

“Still a lightweight?”

“Yes. One more of these, and I’ll be toast.” I force a smile, as if that’s the real issue. Truth be told, drinking makes me frisky. And that’s a chance I can’t take right now. I can’t just flirt my way back into friendship with him. Or into whatever-ship this is.

No matter how good he kisses, no matter how well we can shoot the breeze, I need to remember the pain.

I stop the flirting and ask the real question. “Tyler,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m curious if this is why you wanted to have drinks.”

He tilts his head like the RCA dog. “What do you mean?”

“Did you really want to talk about cats and life and friends and work? Is that what you wanted?”

I wait for his answer.





12





Tyler



* * *



What I want is rooted in why I needed to see her.

I thought it was curiosity. That’s what I told my cousin last weekend. And while I did want to learn all these things about her present life, I now know tonight’s not just about my curiosity.

This date is about everything I’ve denied for the last week.

My need to reconnect with her has stemmed straight from regret.

Like an alarm blaring in my ear at five a.m., blasting me from bed, it’s an unavoidable truth—I regret breaking up with her.

Oh hell, do I ever.

Maybe it doesn’t make sense, but I thought I was driven by a new need to see her again, not by an old need. Now, after the talking and the joking, the teasing about bad hair days, and the hot, searing kiss that nearly turned into fucking, I’m sure that regret has barreled past curiosity. It’s fueling me. I miss this woman. I fucking miss what we could have had if I hadn’t been so pigheaded about ending us years ago.

That’s why I have to talk to her about what went down.

I’d hinted at the subject in my striptease. The why.

And now I need to tell her.

“Yes. To talk to you and hear about what you’re up to now. But that’s not the only reason I wanted to see you.” I drum my fingers on the table. “Remember the other day when I stopped by your office?”

She laughs. “Is that how you refer to it? Stopping by my office?”

I flash her a crooked grin. “Why, yes. Seems an apropos way to describe my visit.” Then my smile fades. The moment turns more serious. “While I was there, I said breaking up with you was something I thought I had to do.”