Delaney

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I can’t stop thinking about our kiss.

Yes, I kissed him to get rid of his hiccups because I know how much he hates them and how much they embarrass him.

Funny, in a way, that this fearless, cocky, confident man is brought to his knees by something so . . . pedestrian and annoying. But we all have our Achilles’ heel. I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable. I care about him, and I had to do everything I could to help.

But let’s be honest here, too.

I wasn’t merely a do-gooder. I didn’t exactly throw myself in front of the bus. I wanted to kiss him. Hell, I’ve been dying to touch him since he juggled his way back into my life. Desire for this man has camped out in me for far too long.

And now I know there’s a damn good reason he’s been the starring act in countless late night fantasies.

Because he kisses me like it’s the only thing on earth he wants to do. Like I’m the best thing he’s ever touched. He makes me believe that no man has ever kissed a woman with such intensity, such passion, such desire.

It makes me woozy.

It makes me heady.

It makes me giddy.

Maybe all these floaty, blissful feelings are simply the illusion of chemistry.

Or maybe it’s the power of chemistry. But how can chemistry grow even more intense over time when it was already mind-blowing back then?

If I were a scientist, I’d apply for a grant and study the subject. For now, my only conclusion is that with some people, chemistry never fades. Perhaps for some, it intensifies.

The real question, though, is whether it extends beyond the physical.

That’s why I had to stop the kiss.

And that’s why I’ve soaked up every detail of our conversation since we returned to the booth post-hallway kiss.

We’ve been talking for the last two hours, getting to know each other again.

I’ve learned he spends as much time with his niece as he can, taking her on excursions around the city to zoos and parks, pottery-making studios, and M&M stores, indulging nearly every whim simply because he can. Naturally, I find this part of him ridiculously adorable. I learn, too, that in addition to his work in entertainment law, he takes on a few civil rights cases pro bono every year. This doesn’t just warm my heart. It makes me feel a tiny bit better about the state of the world.

He asks me about Nirvana and whether I named it for the band. I laugh, then explain the name represents the state of mind. I tell him I opened my spa three years ago, and that while I practice all kinds of massage, I’ve become known for helping those suffering from a range of ailments—from headaches to nerve pain to arthritis, and even fatigue from cancer treatments.

We move on from the subject of work when he gestures to my necklace, inquiring about the turtle charm.

“It comes from the Cayman Islands,” I say, running my finger over the smooth silver. “I picked it up during a scuba and rock climbing trip last year with my two closest friends—Nicole and Penny. They’re the ones I was running with the other day.”

“Your pack,” he says with a smile and a note of appreciation in his voice. “You’re close with them, I take it?”

I cross my index finger with the middle one. “Like family. I’m going out with them tomorrow night.”

“Speaking of family, how’s your mom?”

We chat about my mom and brother, but only briefly, and I don’t mention I hired a private detective to find out what my dad has been up to after all these years. Tyler knows better than anyone that family is a tough topic for me, and he doesn’t push. Nor do I want to get into the why of my pursuit. It’s too much, too personal. I haven’t even told Penny or Nicole. Besides, when your parents spend the better part of your childhood making up and breaking up, fighting and cursing until the day your dad walks out the door and never looks back, it’s hard for the subject of family to be anything but sandpaper in the mouth.

We keep the rest of the conversation simpler, lubricated by talk of music and books, TV and film. He wants to know if I’m still a fan of “skinny boy rockers with eye makeup.”

Oh yeah.

I show him my latest playlist, so he knows some loves never die. “And don’t try to pretend you don’t like Poison. You were just as hooked on the band as I was when we played Guitar Hero’s ‘Talk Dirty to Me.’” I give him my best I’m-cross-examining-you stare. “I heard you sing that one under your breath when we played the video game.”

“I was hooked on the directive of that one song title, and I believe you, as well, enjoyed the dirty talk.”

A hint of heat floods my cheeks. He’s right. I sure did love his naughty mouth.

While we catch up, I drink another glass of wine, and he finishes his beer. This Riesling tastes delicious, and maybe it’s the alcohol warming me up and breaking me down at once, but this buzzy feeling inside makes me want to flirt.

We were so damn good at flirting, and I just can’t resist.

I twirl a strand of hair and bite the corner of my lip. My go-to move and it always worked on Tyler. If I wanted him to grab a book from my shelf, pick up some snacks, turn up the thermostat, I’d do the move.

He joked that he was silly putty, and that one touch, one look, one press of my teeth into a little nibble, and he’d groan sexily, then give me the moon with some sprinkles on top.

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.