Chapter 8
EIGHT
Holy shit.
My grip tightens on the Gatorade I just grabbed from the fridge.
I blink.
Yep, she’s still there. Just as beautiful as she was last night. But now her lips are set, and there’s a faint line between her brows.
I spent the drive home from the city thinking about her. About asking her on a proper date. Having her sitting across from me in a restaurant I’d pick to impress her. A chance to do it right. Slower and more intentional.
But now she’s in my kitchen. And she’s my… cat-sitter?
I pictured her here, too, leaning against my island like she is now. I just didn’t picture the part where she looks like she’s calculating the fastest exit route.
That too-big, too-small feeling in my chest? Yeah, it’s back, but it’s just too small. Claustrophobic, really. My heart’s pounding so hard, I feel it in my throat.
I swallow.
Did Tara tell me the person’s name? I’m sure she did, but I probably wasn’t listening; my only focus as of late has been turning around our losing streak. I wish I’d paid closer attention. I don’t like being caught off guard.
I should say something. Anything. But my mouth won’t cooperate.
“I feel like I’m missing something here…” Tara says, cutting through the ear-ringing silence.
“Um—” Summer starts.
“Don’t you and Jim have plans today?” I turn toward Tara. “It’s Saturday. Get out of here,” I add, keeping my tone easy.
She looks between us, eyes narrowing. “You’re sure?”
I nod, and she looks to Summer. “Is that okay with you? I don’t want to pawn you off before you’re settled.”
“Of course, ma’am—”
“None of that ma’am business,” Tara cuts in. “Makes me feel old. First names are okay around here.”
“Enjoy your day off,” Summer says with forced cheer, then smiles. “I’ll see you next week?”
“Yeah, I’m over here at least once a day, Monday through Friday. I only live a couple of blocks away, so ask if you need anything. But this guy will take care of you.”
She has no idea.
“He’s a good one,” she adds.
Thanks for the vote of confidence, Tara.
She gives Summer a tight hug and then makes her way over to me to do the same, adding a whispered, “Be a gentleman,” in my ear.
Her sneakers squeak across the tile, soften on the wood entryway, then disappear with the clink of the front door closing.
Grace circles Summer’s ankles as she heads to her spot by the island.
I take the opposite side, folding my arms to match hers. She holds my gaze, but doesn’t say a word.
“Well, you don’t have to answer my last text about where to pick you up,” I joke.
Her head tips back with laughter.
“You’re funny.” Her smile falters, eyes widening as reality catches up. “We can’t go on a date now, though.” Her voice rises with each word.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is for the best. Safer. So why does that thought sit in my gut like a stone?
“And why not?” The question’s out before I can stop it.
“This is—I’m living here, Miles.” Her hand jerks between us, gesturing at the house, then at me. “This kind of complicates things, don’t you think?”
Part of me knows she’s right—this is the type of clean exit I usually take. But last night was… I’m not ready to let her go yet.
“It doesn’t have to,” I say, pushing my glasses back into place, even though they haven’t slipped.
“And what if things go south? Then I’ll need a new place to live. I can’t deal with that kind of stress while recording an album—”
“Hey,” I interrupt, catching one of her flailing hands, then letting it go just as quickly. “Breathe.”
She takes a gulp of air and lets it out slowly.
“Here, let’s sit down.” I nod toward the living room, and we head for the couch. I barely hit the cushions before Grace hops into my lap.
Summer’s gaze drifts around the room. “I like your decorations,” she says, taking in the ten-foot Christmas tree in the corner.
“Thanks. It’s mostly Tara’s doing, but she let me hang some ornaments.”
Summer dips her chin, then looks back at me. Well, at Grace in my lap, but close enough.
She lets out a huff of breath and sinks into the cushions. “This is weird. You think this is weird, right?”
I hitch a shoulder. It’s definitely unexpected. But I can’t deny liking that she’s here. I’m just not sure I’m prepared for the fallout.
Then, as if she just thought it, she asks, “You didn’t know about this, did you?”
“What? No. Of course not. Don’t you think I would’ve told you if I had?”
“Yeah.” She sighs, the tension in her shoulders easing a notch. “Yeah, I think you would have.”
“I don’t need to ask if you knew.” I chuckle. “Your face says it all.”
Her lips tip up a fraction and, as if the gesture is contagious, mine do too.
She picks at an invisible piece of lint on the couch. “So what’re we going to do about this?”
Grace meows and slinks from my lap over to Summer’s, always chasing the newest source of attention.
If we’re assigning blame, it probably starts with her. And me, for being such a sucker. The thought of Grace being alone so much with my schedule filled me with guilt. I’ve heard enough horror stories about pissed-off cats and ruined furniture to err on the side of caution.
Summer runs a hand down Grace’s back. “It’s weird that she’s a girl,” she says randomly.
“Is it?” I raise a brow.
“Yeah. Almost eighty percent of orange cats are male.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“The gene for orange fur is on the X chromosome. So, females need two X chromosomes, versus males only needing one to be fully orange,” she explains, and Grace meows as if in agreement. “You’re a rare girl,” she tells my cat.
I think they have that in common.
“How do you know so much about cats?”
“There were lots of strays where I grew up. I used to feed them when I could.”
She doesn’t say more, and I wish she would.
How did she grow up? Does she have siblings?
Are her parents still together? Will she miss her family while she’s up here?
There’s too much I want to ask. Instead, I hum, picturing a younger version of Summer with an army of strays trailing after her. I can see it.
Last night barely scratched the surface of all the things I want to know about her.
“Back to that date…”
Summer laughs. Mission accomplished. She settles on the couch, tucking her legs under her and pulling Grace a little closer.
“You mean the date we’re not going on?” She taps a finger against her lips before adding, “Yeah. We’re not going on it.”
I groan. “You’re killing me.”
She huffs out a breath as a flush climbs her neck. “Can’t say that,” she singsongs.
Her meaning clicks, and in an instant, I’m back under her, groaning “You’re going to kill me” into her neck for a very different reason.
“Sorry.” I rub a hand over my stubble.
“It can’t happen again,” she whispers, like she’s trying to convince herself of it. Then the tension creeps back into her face, and her words speed up again. “Not when I’m living here. And I can’t afford to find another place—”
“I would never ask you to move out,” I cut in. “And I want you to be comfortable here. This is your place now, too. So, we’ll just…”
I let the sentence die, because I’m not sure where that leaves us. Other than disappointed that the one woman I’ve felt a spark with in years is now off-limits. And relieved, because that spark? It terrifies me.
“Be friends?” she offers.
Friends.
The word doesn’t sit right, but I agree anyway. “Sure.”
I could do friends.
We could totally be friends.
My gaze blurs, and when I blink back into focus, I’m looking at her chest. She’s wearing the same sweater as last night.
“Friends.” I do a weird combo of trying to shake the thoughts out of my head and nodding.
I’ve done harder things. Rehabbed a broken collarbone. Watched my ex walk away. Captained a losing team.
But, looking at Summer—at the tangerine bra strap peeking out from under her sweater, at the way she’s holding my cat like she belongs here—and pretending I don’t want more?
This might be the hardest one yet.