CHAPTER 36
I stumble from my room earlier than reasonable after an extravaganza like last night, but I’m anxious to find out where I stand with Cait. The living room and kitchen are empty, so I backtrack down the hallway and push open her bedroom door. I expect to see her passed out in the same spot I left her, but there’s no sign of Cait. And even worse, her bed’s already made. Not good.
I groan and wander through the condo before crashing on the couch to follow my usual Sunday activates. With the remote pointed at the TV, I click the ON button, find the Cartoon Network, and settle into an episode of Archer I’ve seen fifty times.
It’s no surprise when I wake, eyes snapping wide, to the front door clicking shut. I peek over the back of the couch toward the sound.
“You’re alive,” she says, heading for the kitchen with her arm wrapped around a paper bag.
“To be determined.” I croak with a dry throat. “Up to anything fun?” I sit up, feeling less zombie and more human because of Cait’s appearance, but she has that power over me.
“The usual. Running and then I went to the store.” She’s unpacking the bag and putting groceries away.
“It’s time to update your vision board. Your motivation is embarrassingly high. You need to aim a little lower.”
“But I needed to get this.” She tosses a small plastic bag at my face. My reflexes haven’t caught up so it nails me in the head before sliding into my lap. I blink a few times and shake my head at the surprise, but it didn’t hurt. Or I can’t let her think it did. I peek inside the bag to see what’s she’s bought. But after I do, I can only offer her a perplexed look.
“Please tell me this is some kind of sex toy disguised as a kitchen utensil?” I lift the red spatula from the bag.
“Sorry. It’s actually a kitchen utensil disguised as a kitchen utensil.”
“Um—thanks?” My brows crumple in confusion.
“That’s the fun news. Here’s the bad.” She lifts a pan, to which one of my plastic spatulas has melted over the edge, merging the two items, making it a spatu-pan. Or would it be a pan-tcula? Definitely pantcula. I scrunch my face.
“First the bad cat dancing and now this? Your perfect facade is disintegrating, Miss London.” With the new spatula in hand, I walk over to inspect the damage. These things are designed not to melt, which makes me wonder how she managed it.
“I was trying to make you breakfast to pay you back for last night.” She casts me a guilty look.
“That explains my fire dreams.”
She shifts uncomfortably before glancing over her shoulder. When I follow her gaze, there’s a dish towel burned to a crisp, submerged in a sink of water. I laugh.
“Didn’t you hear the fire alarm or the fire department knock on the door?” she asks.
“Are you serious?” As I pick up the soaked dish towel to inspect it, I already know the answer is yes. I drop it back into the sink with a splash.
Worried, I spin, taking in the rest of the kitchen, searching for smoke or burn damage. When I find none, I release a relieved breath. I face Cait and latch my hands on her shoulders.
“Here’s my good news,” I say and her expression brightens. “I believe we have our first official house rule. You’re not allowed to cook. Ever. If you burn down this building, Linden will kill me.”
“I think that’s a rule I can live with too.” She appears sheepish. And instead of releasing her, I give her a hug to let her know we’re cool.
“But that’s not even the best part. Lucky for you, I know how to cook. So sit down and allow me to school you.” I spin her and steer her toward a chair until she’s seated.
“How did you go from cocky and annoying to this?” She rolls her hand in the air as if searching for the correct words.
“I’m confident, not cocky. And the other adjectives you’re searching for are sweet and thoughtful, not annoying.” I remove an apron, one Steph gave me as a joke. One in which I promised her I would never wear, but when I tie it on it makes Cait giggle. Which was my intention. I’m always down for a little self-humiliation.
“When will admit you like this handsome mug?” I gesture to myself, trying to appear macho in the apron printed with a naked male torso with perfect etched abs. Maybe I’ll have them one day—for real. I strike a few bodybuilder poses.
“I deny everything.” She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair.
“Which means you do.” I point the spatula at her and watch her body language for the answer. She shrugs. Her face expression is uncommitted.
“We’ll see how good your cooking is, then I’ll decide.” She leans forward, anchoring her elbows on the kitchen island.
With a self-assured grin, I select a frying pan from the cabinet and raise it in the air by the handle. Then I spin it in my palm, whirling it in several quick rotations. It flickers silver and black Teflon under the lights, making her hoot and clap.
What she’s about to learn is that in the kitchen, I’m Tom Cruise in the movie Cocktail, juggling bottles of milk and sticks of butter in a choreographed air dance of general awesomeness. I can’t tell if she’s impressed but at least she’s watching me, and there’s nothing I like more than her full attention. Now I need to make it worth her while.
After my culinary acrobatics show is complete, I set a plate of apple-and-cinnamon pancakes before her. With a torch, I lean over to light the tall candle I’ve placed in the middle of the high stack. It’s not a birthday candle but a twelve-inch-high tapered candle I stole from a fake flower arrangement my mom brought over years ago to “brighten the living room.”
“Are you serious?” she asks.
In response, I sing “Happy Birthday.” When I’m done, she blows out the candle.
When her eyes turn all sparkly and damp, I can’t help but ask, “Did you make a wish?”
“I don’t need to. Everything I want is already on my vision board.” She’s confident she’ll acquire whatever she wishes. Another something I love about her.
She forks a piece of pancake, taking the first bite. Her shoulders ease lower at the taste before she continues speaking with a full mouth, “This might be my perfect birthday. I wish you ran too.”
Now I’m smug. I’ve been dying to drop this information on her. “I run a three-hour marathon. How about you?”
Her gaze brightens as a languid smile spreads across her face. She finishes chewing and says, “I guess you’ll have to find out. How about in eight weeks on the Lakefront? That’ll give us time to train.”
“Prepare to be whipped by me and my new spatula.”
“Sounds naughty.” She laughs.
I grab the spatula from the counter and lurch at her, threatening to smack her butt. She jumps from her seat and tears across the room to escape, using the sofa to defend herself, but she’s no match for me. When I dive over it, I catch her by the waist and double tap her ass with the flat end. It drops from my hand and then I tickle her until she yelps with laughter and we fall onto the sofa. When she’s trapped beneath me and our bodies have aligned, we lock gazes. There’s a long moment of silence with only the soft sound of our calming breaths.
“Last night,” she starts, “thanks for not, you know, taking me up on my offer. I’m not ready.” She rolls her lips inward, appearing ashamed.
“It wasn’t the right time. For now, I just want to kiss you.”
“Even if I was the one who wrote virgin on your chest?” She bites her fingertip coyly, a smile phantoms but she can’t contain it. As soon as I respond with a shocked expression, she bellows a laugh.
“What?” I tickle her again until she can barely breath. When I think she’s paid the price of the ten showers it took to completely remove the black Sharpie drawing, I place my lips near her ear and whisper, “Especially if.”
Then I kiss her. Everywhere.