Chapter 14 Tea
TEA
KAT
“Bundy?” my voice echoes through the lofty sitting room, with its high ceiling, and dark, polished beams. But no responding meow meets my ears.
Flipping up bed skirts and pulling out drawers, I check every room for him.
Barely contained panic threatens to spill out.
It’s not helping at all that I can’t get Zayn’s handsome face out of my head.
Just gazing and smiling at me like that from the doorway of the little cottage the other night.
Constantly waving at me through the windows in the days since.
Always smiling confidently and assuredly, as though aware of his soothing effect on my ragged nerves.
And I had done, what? Forgiven him? Just like that. Allowed him to be all up in my business and around the house 24-7. Why, purely because he is hot as all sin?
What is wrong with you? A little voice quips from the back of my head.
I slam my palm onto the floor in frustration and rise from where I’m kneeling by an end table.
Well, he did save your life, the little voice in my head pipes up again, helpfully.
“Oh, fuck off!” I say out loud to myself, continuing to tear through the house, now trying not to lose it.
With every passing minute that I can’t find Bundy, I feel like ripping my hair out at the roots.
Where the hell is he? He has never stayed away from me like this before, and my stomach is in knots wondering who or what could have possibly scared him enough to make him hide from me.
Unless… a question passes through my mind.
Could he have somehow gotten out?
I dash up the stairs and start checking the windows.
Sure enough, I spot the window by the upstairs lounge cracked open about half a foot.
Wincing, I remember spilling some wine on the carpet the other night.
I had opened the window to help the rug dry faster after spot treating it. I had forgotten to close it.
Damn you and your alcoholic tendencies, Kat.
I race out the front door, flashlight in hand, and tear down the steps. A few yards out, I veer off the black wet pavement of the driveway and turn onto the spongy green moss of the wild landscape that surrounds the house.
“Bundy?” I call out, feeling panic rise in my throat. “Bundy!”
What if a mountain lion or coyote had gotten to him?
“Bundy!” I repeat, shining my light low under every fern and tree.
I keep my head down, scanning side to side, when I all but crash into a tall, solid figure. I stifle a scream as I look up and meet the sea blue eyes of Zayn.
Wrapped in his arms is Bundy. I stare incredulously at them both and exhale a relieved breath.
“Bundy!” I exclaim. “Oh my God, where did you find him?”
Zayn tries to pass Bundy over to me, extending his arms, but Bundy digs his claws deeper into Zayn’s flannel shirt, apparently hanging on for dear life.
What in the hell?
“Come here, Judas,” I murmur, trying to gently unhook his claws from Zayn’s shirt, but Bundy continues to resist, jerking his paw away from me. Then, he butts his little head up underneath Zayn’s chin and starts to purr.
Fucking traitor, I think. Zayn smiles at me and leans forward to show Bundy off better. His dimples are on full display as I take in his handsome face. He smells like wet pine and cedar.
“I was behind the house clearing out some of the old growth firs by the ravine when I heard his meow,” Zayn explains. “He sounded so sad. So, I took a knee, called out to him, and he ran right over to me.”
“Jesus. Thank you,” I breathe out, relief washing over me. How was he always in the right place at the right time?
“Well come on, bud. Let’s get you back inside,” I say, turning to tread back toward the house.
Once on the front stoop, I turn to face Zayn who is now giving Bundy gentle scratches behind his ears. Far from appearing traumatized, Bundy looks like he’s in heaven.
What is it about this man that even my cat trusts him?
“Um, would you like to come in?” I ask, realizing that he has saved my ass twice now, and I should at the very least, extend some basic politeness his way.
Zayn gives me a smirk and a small nod. His eyes twinkle with some inner thought. It’s then that I remember he has already been inside Pearson House. Just not when I was aware of it.
Jackass.
“I’d love to. But I’m a bit wet and muddy,” he states, gesturing down at his dark jeans and boots.
“Oh, that’s okay,” I assure him, thinking that I can’t remember the last time the floors were cleaned anyway.
We cross the foyer, and Zayn sets Bundy down. He sprints down the hallway with his tail held high to where his food and water bowls reside. Zayn removes his boots and runs his hands through his dark hair, eyeing me speculatively.
“Uh,” I start, fully unsure of what to do with this gorgeous, towering man suddenly in my house. “Can I get you a glass of wine? Or maybe some hot tea?” I ask, shutting and locking the front door behind him.
It occurs to me that the reason I have been so adamant about locking my goddamn doors is now standing directly in front of me. And I had just offered him a beverage. I inhale and breathe in his scent. My head swims the same way it did the night of the attack.
What in the hell are you doing, Katherine? I lament internally.
“Tea would be great. I don’t really drink,” Zayn replies.
Christ, I couldn’t relate to that. But, not wanting to appear an alcoholic, I decide to forego the wine and have a cup of tea as well.
In the kitchen, I return the flashlight to its home in the junk drawer and set the kettle on the stove, collecting two matching mugs from the cabinet.
Zayn gestures toward the sink to wash up.
Nodding, I pass him a clean dish towel to dry off with.
“Thank you again for finding him,” I say, over my shoulder, mostly to keep myself busy while the water heats up.
“You’re welcome, Doc. Anything for you. Anytime,” he adds softly.
My stomach does that wiggly little flip it always does when he calls me by the nickname.
Smiling tentatively, I watch him as he leans up against the sink and tosses the hand towel aside.
He just relaxes there, watching me, seeming completely at ease.
I am reminded of our joke of an initial therapy session for a fleeting moment.
And all of his presence in and around the house since then.
He was always so self-assured. His confidence and steadiness were enviable.
I rarely ever feel that at home in my own body. Though, I longed to.
Suddenly unable to tolerate the intensity of his gaze, I turn away from him and busy myself with arranging our mugs so both handles are pointing perfectly perpendicular to the edge of the countertop.
I can feel Zayn’s eyes eat me up as I turn away from him.
His gaze on my back is like a caress, and I know he is there behind me before I ever see his arms snake around my hips.
He leans forward and cages my body against the cool granite counter.
My chest rises and falls quickly as his scent envelops me.
I let my eyes fall closed as his hot breath glides across the back of my neck.
“And how are you doing this evening, Katherine?” his low voice murmurs.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, trying to summon the courage to turn and face him.
When I finally do, what I see in his eyes has me scarcely able to look away. Those eyes hold so much that he isn’t saying, and I find myself getting lost in their depths. With one long, gentle stroke, he drags the back of a knuckle along my cheekbone.
“You sure?” he pushes.
No. Not even a little bit. I haven’t been fine in a long time.
But being around him now makes me feel more whole and alive than I have in months.
I, of course, say none of this and simply nod at him. My eyes flit down his body to the growing bulge in his jeans. His eyes follow mine, and a sexy little smirk plays across his lips.
“See something you like, Doc?” he asks coyly.
I want to nod yes. I want to press my entire body up against his, and unzip his jeans, free his cock. Maybe take it in my mouth.
Declining to answer again, I swallow thickly and nuzzle my nose into his knuckle, which still lingers lightly over my cheek. An electric current erupts from where our skin meets. Zayn exhales sharply. He feels it, too.
I glance down at his groin again, my mouth now salivating. The water starts to roll in the kettle behind me, and my head swims with palpable, unfamiliar desire. But then, like the complete idiot that I am, I start talking.
“Um…” I begin, clearing my throat, “did…did you know that the gothic wainscoting here in Pearson House was originally designed by R.M. Schindler—”
“Doc,” he growls out low, interrupting me and grasping my chin.
Energy crackles between us as I feel his strong hand move down to my neck.
I notice that he keeps a very gentle pressure across the fading bruise on my throat from Josh’s attack.
Zayn speaks again, his voice now a low and urgent growl, dripping with desire.
“I absolutely love hearing you talk but I am going to need you to tell me what it is you really want.”
Shit. He sees me. In all my self-sabotage and self-doubt.
Zayn’s words hang in the charged air between us, a dark challenge. His command of honesty called to something dark within me. Invited it to trust and come out and play. I inhale slowly and wet my dry lips with my tongue.
“What do you want, Katherine?” he asks again.
And I decide. Just like that. I’m safe here.