It's In His Kiss (10 page)

"Ah ha! I knew it. Now you're sounding like a romance novel. Impure thoughts. How can you even consider living with that gorgeous body and sustaining
pure
thoughts?" 

"I wasn't having a problem until you started all this.. Michael would be horrified.
I'm
horrified, at what you're suggesting. Does it not mean anything to you that we've known each other since we were eight years old?" 

Debra smiled a devilish smile. "It means you should know each other's faults. If you've remained friends for this long, you've obviously got all the major problems taken care of. Trust me when I say that sex is not the major part of a lasting relationship. In the long run, while I don't kick Phil out of bed for eating crackers, if he and I weren't good friends, he'd be long gone."

"Thank you, Masters, or is it Johnson?"

"Listen to me. You two have knocked the hardest part of making a marriage work. You're friends. You know the worst about each other and you still love each other."

The worst about each other
. Cat winced internally. "Get out of here." 

"No, I'm serious. You're the perfect couple."

"No,
I'm
serious. Get out of my cubicle." 

Debra just crossed her arms.

Cat threw her hands up. "I have not seen Michael in three years. He could have totally changed."

"Has he changed?"

Cat thought about it. Michael had always been carefree and fun. He’d dated the girls who’d pursued him with no motive other than enjoying them and showing them a good time. At the same time, he’d been kind, dancing with wallflowers at parties, making sure even the plainest girl danced at least once. And he’d always taken care of her.

"I don't know," Cat sighed. "That's my point. I don't know. For instance, Michael borrowed his friend's truck yesterday, and got my bedroom suite moved in. Then he left to take the guy's truck back, and when I went to bed at eleven, he still wasn't home."

"Well, you don't know. Maybe he and his buddy got drunk."

"Ah ha! See, that's just it. I don't know. He could have been doing anything. He could have a girlfriend." Cat paused, horrified at her words. "Although he did say he wasn't seeing anyone."

"Well then, that's perfect."

"What's perfect?"

Debra twirled her hair, twisting it into a bun, then untwisting it again. "You could be his girlfriend."

"All right. That does it. Get out." Cat made shooing gestures with her hands, as if Debra was a cat. "Go on. Shoo!"

Debra laughed. "Okay. But you think about Michael, and when you do, picture him kissing you, holding you, picking you up and carrying you into--"

"Out!" Cat shouted.

Debra ducked and disappeared.

"Grrr!" Cat turned back to her computer.
Kissing her, holding her, picking her up--
"Argh!" She squeezed her head between her hands. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" After a few calming breaths, she looked back at the computer screen.  

* * *

That evening, she got home around six. Michael wasn't there yet. She took a quick tour of the apartment, happy to have some time to check it out before he got home. His bedroom was surprisingly neat, for a bachelor. She wondered if he'd cleaned up just for her. His bed was made, after a fashion. She smiled. That meant he'd pulled the sheet up and straightened the pillows. She plumped them, then patted the closer pillow, which still had the imprint of his head in it. She picked it up, preparing to fluff it, then caught a whiff of Michael's unique scent of soap and Michael. She held the pillow to her nose and her eyes drifted shut. What a great way to wake up, with her nose buried in his pillow, or his shoulder. 

"Mmm," she sighed.

What?
Her eyes flew open, and she stared at the pillow. What was she doing? She cleared her throat and tossed the pillow away from her as if she'd just discovered a spider sitting on it. Glancing around the room guiltily, she wiped her palms down her skirt. 

"Okay," she muttered. "Just checking out the place. Nothing weird."

She turned on her heel and straightened her shoulders, eyeing the bathroom like a staff sergeant on inspection. Except for the Mount Everest-sized pile of laundry spilling out the bathroom door, there weren't any strange objects on the floor.

His closet door was open, so she peeked inside. It was even neater than the bedroom, with several suits lined up on one side and a few shirts and pairs of slacks on the other. A bunch of empty hangars waited for the pile of laundry to be done.

Cat counted his shoes, and marveled at the difference between men and women. She closed her eyes. What had he been wearing this morning? Besides the infamous boxer shorts, of course.

Damn it Deb. Now you've got me thinking impure thoughts.
She sternly admonished herself to keep her mind off Michael's boxers, or how his pillow smelled, or what great abs he had.
Argh!
 

Now, think. What was he wearing this morning? A dark blue suit with a bit of a stripe in it, a school tie, probably Brown University, his almer mater, a white shirt, and--she scrunched up her nose, thinking. Ah! Black loafers. Was it creepy that she could remember exactly what he had on, down to his shoes? She sincerely hoped not.

She directed her attention back to his closet. He had, counting the black loafers and the running shoes in the middle of the floor, four pairs of shoes. On the other hand, she had more than four pairs of black shoes. She stifled a giggle as she closed his closet door.

Men and women.
Vive la difference!
 

Back in the kitchen, Cat loaded the dishwasher and squeezed the very last drops of dishwashing gel into the dispenser, then rinsed the bottle with a bit of water to glean just a few drops more. With a grimace, she pressed sterilize.  

Okay, what about dinner? Michael had said she could cook, so she supposed she should. The refrigerator was a wasteland, as far as potential meals were concerned. Holding her nose, Cat emptied the milk down the sink and ran copious amounts of water afterward to get rid of the smell. Then she opened the freezer and took inventory.

Ice. Good. Beer mugs. Okay. A Dove Bar. Better. A frozen TV dinner. She picked it up and brushed off the frost. Salisbury steak and gravy. Ugh. Make that a frost-bitten TV dinner. She tossed the package back into the freezer. Oh, well.

 "I should have stopped at the grocery store," she muttered.

With hope dying fast in her breast, she turned to the cabinets. A quick perusal yielded dishes, glasses, the empty shelf that should have held coffee mugs. Finally she opened a cabinet stocked with food.

Without much enthusiasm, Cat took inventory. There was a can of asparagus. She set it out on the counter. A jar of spaghetti sauce.
Come on, Michael. Surely you've got spaghetti.
She pushed aside three cans of tuna, refusing to even consider tuna casserole. Behind a jar of mushrooms, and a can with no label on it, was a red cardboard package. Fettuccini.  

"Success," she murmured in satisfaction.

Within a half hour, Cat had spaghetti sauce with mushrooms, cooked fettuccini, and two small dishes of cold asparagus with a dollop of mayonnaise, and a squeeze of lemon. Not bad for foraging, she congratulated herself. She put the asparagus in the refrigerator and turned the spaghetti sauce down to low, and went into the living room and turn on the television.

* * *

At twenty minutes past midnight, Michael let himself into his apartment, sincerely hoping Cat was asleep. After their encounter this morning, he'd decided it would be better if he saw her as little as possible. 

What had he been thinking, inviting her to live with him? He'd barely made it through work today, because his brain kept displaying full color pictures of Cat in her bikini panties and tiny little top. How was he going to last for the next weeks, until she found an apartment? He sighed. A lot of cold showers, late nights at the office, and a whole lot of raquetball.

He sniffed as he locked the door behind him. She had cooked spaghetti from the smell. He hoped she'd left something for him. He'd been so busy wrapping up the court case, he'd forgotten to eat.

 The light over the sink was on. It cast a pallid glow over the kitchen area, and barely spilled into the living room.

 Michael tossed his briefcase onto the table and headed for his bedroom, tugging on his tie. He shed his suit, then pulled on a pair of sweat pants, and returned to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door.

 "Oh--."

 The sleepy voice behind him sent a shiver up his spine. He turned around just in time to see Cat unfold her legs and get up from the couch.

 "Hi," she said, stretching and yawning. Her action pulled the Halloween sleep shirt up her thighs. "What time is it?"

 Michael swallowed and turned back to the refrigerator. If he let his gaze linger on her one more instant, he couldn't be responsible for where his hands went. Pushing away the idea of sliding that orange shirt further up her body, he leaned over and stared at the refrigerator shelves.

 Cat turned on the kitchen light, groaning as she squinted at the clock on the stove. "After twelve," she said. "You sure are late."

 "I was busy," Michael said shortly. What was he looking for?
Oh yeah, food
. 

 "Move over." Cat nudged him out of the way with her hip and reached for two plastic containers. "Here," she said on a yawn.

 He took the two containers and she grabbed a plate then pushed the refrigerator door closed with another flip of her hip.

"Hungry?" she asked drowsily.

 
Yeah, but not for food.
Michael forced his gaze away from her talented hip, grimacing at his thoughts as he took the top off the sauce pan. "Mmm, smells good." 

 "It was better at seven o'clock," Cat groused. "Why're you so late anyhow?" She unwrapped a plate of cold asparagus with mayonnaise.

 Michael handed her the sauce and she handed him the asparagus. He reached into the sink for a fork. "Hey. Where are my dishes?"

 Cat stuck the sauce in the microwave, then turned, licking her thumb. "Oh. I put them in the dishwasher."

 "Oh yeah. I'm out of dishwashing liquid. I meant to get some."

 "I squeezed enough out to wash one more load." She planted her fists on her hips. "Well?"

 "Well what?"

 "Where were you?"

 "Who are you, my mother?"

 "Nope. Just your roommate. Did you have a hot date?" Cat dug her fingers into his ribs.

 He took a swift breath as her touch ripped through him like lightning. "Stop it! No, I did not have a hot date."

 "Oh I'm sorry, Michael. Was she lukewarm? That's too bad." She jabbed him in the side again, curling her fingers into his skin.

 "Hey!" He jerked, almost spilling the asparagus.

 Her sleepy eyes lit up. "You're still ticklish." She reached for him again but he dodged her fingers.

 "I am not," he laughed. "Besides, if you want to get into a tickling war, just remember, I'm a lot bigger than you are now."

 Cat looked up at him, and something about her expression made his insides tighten with desire.

 He swallowed hard, and maneuvered around her to get a fork from the drawer, thinking how small his kitchen had suddenly gotten. "This asparagus is good."

 "Thank you. I opened the can myself."

 "Talent always shows."

 Cat stuck her tongue out at him.

 "You'd better be careful with that thing," he laughed, uncomfortably fascinated with her small, pink tongue. "You might get it bitten off."

 "Oh yeah, by who?" The microwave buzzer rang and she fixed him a big plate of spaghetti. "I couldn't find any Parmesan cheese."

 He reached up, deep into a cabinet that was well above her head. "Here you go. The top shelf has all kinds of secret hiding places for food."

 "Oh great. Now he tells me, after I ate my spaghetti naked."

 Michael took his plate to the table and sat down. "Want some more?"

 She shook her head and sat down opposite him.

 "So what are you doing up, anyhow?" he asked, noticing for the first time that her nose was red and the puffiness around her eyes was not only from sleeping. "Is something wrong?" She looked like she'd been crying, although Michael couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Cat cry.

 At his question, Cat made a face. "My mother called tonight."

 "Good for her," Michael started, then belatedly noticed Cat's dejected tone. "Not good?" he said around a mouthful of spaghetti.

 She shook her head. "Awful. She wants me to go to dinner with her and
Hank
tomorrow night." 

 "Well that's a nice gest--" he stopped when Cat shook her head. "
Not
a nice gesture." He sighed. "Okay, why don't you tell me what's bothering you." 

 "I don't want to go to dinner with them. I'm not sure how many more episodes of 'Janice's husbands' I can take."

 Michael finished his spaghetti and took his plate to the sink. He turned around.

 "Rinse it."

 "Yes, sir." He whirled back around and turned on the water. So that's what was bothering her. She didn't want to see her mother with yet another guy. Michael’s parents had been married for thirty-five years, but he’d watched Cat’s mother bounce from one relationship to another. And he’d seen Cat’s reactions, seen the many times she had reached out to her mother, only to be rebuffed. If it hadn’t been for her grandmother, Cat might have been really screwed up. "Who'd you say she's dating?"

 "All she said was Hank. Oh, and he's in construction." Cat made a face. "I may be exposed to crack--butt crack."

 Michael laughed. "I've got a life-sized picture of that. But maybe you're wrong. Maybe this is Mr. Right."

 "Oh sure. Seriously, Michael. What are the chances. After my stepdad died, Mother--excuse me. I keep forgetting she wants me to call her Janice.
Janice
apparently decided to choose men for their uniqueness, to put it mildly. There was the bass player, that vending machine guy, and of course Paul, who didn't even pretend to have a job."