Barrett

Kitty Cat’s cute when she has a few in her. I’ve never seen her quite this loose. She’s been jabbering since we left Hole in One about how golfing indoors was “way more fun” than she would’ve imagined. She’s also been giving me tips about my swing, which makes her even cuter.

Whenever she’s explaining how to achieve a goal, she gets this serious look on her face and moves her hands a lot. The art of success is one Catarina Everhart has mastered. Weirdly enough I don’t even think she cares that I won both rounds.

“I appreciate the tips,” I tell her as I arrive at our destination. In the parking lot of my apartment building, I turn off the ignition and lean my head back. I left the top off my Audi so it’s a perfect opportunity to check out the stars.

“Where are we?”

“My place.” I gesture to the tall building. “It’ll make a good story. You describing my apartment will be far more interesting than if I do it.”

I put the top up and climb out of the convertible before she can argue. She follows and I admire the slim pair of jeans that make her legs appear a mile long. Her tank top stretches across her breasts—black with shiny gold dots.

She pulled her hair into a low ponytail for the ride. I mean, of course she did. Like she’s going to allow her hair to brave the elements? She brushes back a few stray strands that have escaped and smooths them against her head. Truth is, she looks cute either way. Smooth and sleek or with a dab of disarray.

“No funny stuff, Fox.” She slings her handbag over her shoulder. “And I’m not drinking more alcohol.”

“You don’t have to drink more alcohol,” I promise as I open the door and let us into the building.

We bypass a quiet lobby to the bank of elevators, but not before Mack in security calls out a “Good evening, Mister Fox.”

I wave to him and hold the elevator doors for Catarina. She steps on and offers a smart-aleck echo of my security guy.

“Mister Fox.” She snorts.

“I’m kind of a big deal.” I smile, pleased when her own smile holds fast. I have a feeling she doesn’t hate me as much as she used to. Typically, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if someone hates me or not, but Kitty Cat’s different. I don’t crave approval—never have—but earning hers is a perk.

The elevator goes to floor thirty and she steps off, inspecting the doors lining the hallway.

“Which one’s yours?” She points at a door with a sunflower wreath hanging over the peephole and makes a face.

“Yeah, not mine. I’m not on this floor. Come on.” I walk to the end of the hall and use another key to open a separate entrance to a stairwell. “The elevator’s programming is screwed up. We normally would’ve been able to take it to my front entrance.”

“You have a private floor?”

“Yes.” I pop open the door for her. “It’s a short flight of stairs.”

Since I asked her to dress casual tonight, she wore flat black shoes instead of tall, spiky ones. She walks ahead of me up the stairwell as the door shuts behind me. I trail behind, watching her butt wiggle in jeans that hug her hips, thighs, and calves.

“Enjoying the view?” she snaps.

I reroute my gaze to her frowning face. “I was, actually. You have a great ass.”

“Is that what you tell all your dates?” Her lips twist.

“Only the ones with nice asses.” Another eye roll. I excel at getting her to do that. She steps on the landing and tugs on the door but it won’t open.

“This is locked, too? What if there’s a fire?”

“It’s locked from the outside only. Can’t be too careful with crazed fans.” Using my key, I unlock a door that enters the laundry room at the side of my penthouse apartment. A light is on in the foyer, illuminating our path and throwing dim shadows into this room as well.

“Nice Samsung.” She strokes the charcoal gray washing machine as she walks by. “This is terribly neat for a bachelor.”

“I don’t like clutter.” I hang my keys on a hook in the foyer and flip on a few more lights for the living room and kitchen. It’s not overly bright. Just enough so we can see our way around.

“Wine?” I offer.

She’s taking slack-jawed inventory of my penthouse. I’ve yet to witness Catarina amazed by anything. Not gonna lie, I’m proud to illicit that response from my prickly co-worker.

“Like it?” I decide against wine and pull a beer from the fridge for myself.

She unshoulders her purse strap, plunking it on one of my breakfast bar’s stools. “I like it. Who decorated? Ex-girlfriend? Designer? Your mom?”

I grunt at her assumption. “If my mom had decorated this place it’d closely resemble the inside of a Cracker Barrel.”

“I like Cracker Barrel,” she says kindly. Who knows if that’s true. I can’t picture elegant Catarina Everhart in the country-style restaurant famous for its sawmill gravy.

“Wine, Kitty Cat?”

“I said no more drinks.” She wags a finger at me, looking damn sober on top of damn cute.

“Is that what you’ll write in your article? ‘He took me up for a nightcap that I refused.’ ”

“Yes. And after that, I’ll advise ‘Never have a nightcap if you don’t intend on kissing him goodnight.’ ” One eyebrow hitches. “I’ll have a bottle of water though.”

I grab her a Smartwater. She drinks from the bottle, her delicate throat moving as she swallows each cold sip.

“Would kissing me be that bad?” I’d totally make out with her. She has a mouth that looks plush and soft, and I’ll bet that sharp tongue would soften once I stroked it with mine.

“I’m not kissing you!” she says around a laugh. “Again, is this what you say to your dates? If so, it’s not hard to figure out why you’ve been single ‘on and off’ for so long.”

She rounds the white leather sofa and sits primly on the edge. I take the middle, sitting so close that my jeans brush hers.

“Seriously, Fox.” She gives me a mild glare before scooting a few inches away from me. “Okay. The column. You’ve been hiding your summary from me and I want to see it.”

“I decided to turn it into Mia directly.”

“What? Why?” She sounds sincerely upset by this.

“I don’t want to flavor your views with mine. We view the world differently, Kitty Cat.”

“You’d better not lie and say we made out tonight.”

“I’m not going to lie.” A stubborn strand of hair has wrestled its way loose from her ponytail again. I reach up and slide it behind her ear. “When I write that we made out, it’ll be true.”

She watches me carefully.

“But not tonight,” I tell her, backing off abruptly. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

A choking sound exits her throat. “Have not!”

I smother a smile at the lip of my beer bottle.

“I’m in control of my faculties, Fox. If I wanted to kiss you after a few glasses of wine, I would. And you couldn’t stop me.”

“Hey, hey.” I hold up my palms. “Don’t make me report you to Mia for sexual harassment.”

“Me! You were the one offering to have sex with me in Marge’s old office.”

“And that offer still stands.”

She takes an exaggerated gulp from her water bottle and regards the label, eyes narrowed.

“Oh my goodness, it works!” she blurts. “I’m not going to have sex or kiss Barrett Fox. Thank you, Smartwater, for making me smart!”

“Hilarious,” I mumble.

“Eh. I can do better.”

“You really can, Kitty Cat. You have sharp wit. That was bland.”

She shrugs off my compliment-insult combo.

“I mean it. I read your articles. You’re funny. Concise. Sharp.”

“Sharp and concise and funny.” She says this to the living room window overlooking the river and the cityscape beyond.

“Those were compliments. Do you prefer I compliment your body instead?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “You have a great ass, hair I want to run my fingers through, and I bet your lips are heaven on earth.”

She swallows, more than a little stunned. I lift her hand.

“You have pretty fingers, too. Elegant. Ever play the piano?”

“When I was twelve.”

It’s a rich girl hobby. I’m not surprised.

“Did you?”

“No.” There weren’t a lot of pianos available at the trailer park, unless the keyboard had a Casio logo on it and took five AA batteries.

She stands abruptly and walks to the mantel over a fireplace I never use. I moved here when the weather was warm. I haven’t had the chance to kick back in front of a fire and sip whiskey, but it’s a goal.

She picks up a framed photo of me running a touchdown for the Bucks. My buddy Dax had it framed for me the day I was drafted for the Dolphins. Catarina examines the photo then sets it down next to a grouping of shells I took from the beach before I flew back to Columbus for good.

“Why ‘bad boy of the NFL’?” she asks of my stupid nickname.

“You say that like it was intentional. Like I picked it.”

“You do things that land you squarely in that category, Fox. Are you telling me it’s accidental?”

“Not accidental.” I shrug. “Just not intentional. Guess I never shook my roots.”

“Were you a rule-breaker as a kid?”

“I was a shit,” I tell her honestly. “Until I became interested in sports. I played a lot of touch football with my friends. When I was finally old enough to work, I saved enough to join the high school team.”

“Did scouts find you and offer a scholarship like in a movie?”

“Something like that.”

Her head tilts like she’s considering. I shift on the couch, uncomfortable with the attention. I don’t mind attention for being an asshole, but attention for doing well has always made me uncomfortable. Probably we could blame my upbringing, but let’s not go full-on Dr. Phil here.

I roll my shoulder and wince. I’m paying the price for too many golf swings and honestly, I pushed past my comfort level to win that last game.

“You hurt yourself.” She sounds concerned.

“Eh, it’s just sore.”

She rounds the couch and stands behind me, brushing her fingers along my shoulder. I flinch, hissing air through my teeth in preparation for the pain. Instead of digging her fingers into my muscles, she tenderly touches here and there until she finds a spot to the right of my spine. With her thumbs, or what feels like her thumbs, she manipulates the tissue there, working it this way and that with gentle but firm presses to my flesh.

“There,” she announces a few minutes later.

“There?”

“Yeah. That should help. There’s a muscle right here”—she touches the spot that she’d been working on which is surprisingly sore now—“that will help your shoulder release. Make sure you ice it later. Twenty minutes on, forty minutes off.”

When she rounds the couch, my eyebrows are at the top of my forehead.

“You a voodoo doctor or something?”

“I dabble in acupressure. Mostly for my dad’s benefit. He’s always had back trouble. I work out a few kinks here and there for him when I can.”

Her comment suggests closeness with her father. I definitely never had that with mine.

“You seem surprised.”

“I can’t even imagine touching my dad let alone doing acupressure on him.”

“Are you two not close?” A tiny frown bisects her brow like this is sad news.

“We didn’t have a lot in common.” Except that we both liked the money I was paid as a professional football player.

“I’m sorry. You don’t see him much?”

“My parents passed away about five years ago.”

“Oh.” She lowers to sit next to me, as close as I sat next to her earlier. Her fingers twitch but she doesn’t reach for my hand. “Do you have any family around here?”

“Yeah.” I leave it at that and she takes the hint, her brown eyes softening on my face. Her skin is satin smooth and porcelain pale. Her eyes ringed with lashes, her mouth full and expressive.

“You are so beautiful.” It’s out of my mouth before I mean to say it, but like all things I don’t mean to stay, I commit to my path.

“North was crazy to let you go. Gorgeous, smart, and able to administer acupressure.” I roll my shoulder and a dart of pain shoots down my arm. It must show on my face because she hops up and offers to make me an ice pack.

I watch her moving around my kitchen and accept that whatever chance I thought I had at kissing her tonight has been quashed by talk of dead parents and/or her ex-boyfriend.

Sure enough I’m left with nary a hug upon her departure. What she does leave me with is advice dressed up like a command.

“Don’t stretch the truth in your column, Fox. Readers can always tell.”

“So don’t mention sex in Marge’s office or the serious hot and heavy make-out session we just had on my sofa?” I joke.

She cocks an eyebrow in answer, and then turns away.

“Walk you out?”

“I’ve got it.” She calls without slowing.

I lean on the doorjamb and watch her exit via the stairwell, admiring that fine ass as much as the confidence that straightens her small shoulders.