Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Lot
“Queen recognizes queen.”
Dice pushes the car with ease, and I steer it to the curb, hating that I had to take his help.
Once it’s in park, I sit with both hands on the wheel, fingers tapping, trying to breathe past the frustration boiling hot in my chest. I’d set an alarm.
I’d worn a hair tie on my wrist to remind me to get gas.
But my phone died, and my hair was getting on my nerves, so I used the tie for that. A lot of good either did me.
“It’s lucky he came by,” I mutter to the cat. “But we’re going for polite, not friendly. Got it?”
“Meow.”
“Did you say something?” he asks, putting his face up to the slightly open window.
And what a face it is. Dice isn’t just fine—he’s chocolate-truffle fine.
Rich-brown skin and dark-brown eyes. Tiny space between his two front teeth that only adds to his appeal.
Short fade and trimmed beard—that’s new.
He used to wear a soul patch beneath his bottom lip, but the full beard suits him.
Too well. And where did all those muscles come from?
“Lot?”
“What?”
“Did you say something?”
“I just said thanks. Here’s my credit card for the gas.” I shove it through the narrow crack.
“It’s all good,” he says, not taking it. “We’re a block from my place. We can grab my car and a gas can.”
We? “I’ll just wait here.”
“That makes no sense. First, it’s cold, and second, you can charge your phone on the drive to the station.”
Good points, but—
“Lot, I’m not leaving you here, so we’re just wasting time.”
“Fine.” I exhale through my nose, pick up the cat, tucking her beneath my arm, and lock up.
We walk in silence for a few beats before he says, “I can hold her.”
“It’s okay.”
“I don’t mind.” He reaches toward her, and she lets out a guttural hiss.
“Daaamn!” Dice jerks his hand back. “That was personal.”
Good girl. I smile to myself.
“She’s you in feline form,” he says, smirking. “Only tamer.”
I pretend to ignore him. And the way his familiar teasing tugs low in my stomach.
“This is me,” he announces as we come upon a square-cut house with blue-gray siding and a cedar door. Not flashy. Not loud. Just solid in that settled, mature way.
The porch light fixture is brass and the mat reads: Welcome to the Crib. I pause there, waiting for him to unlock the door, trying not to show how curious I am about his new place. Wondering what all I’ve missed.
“Why’d you decide to buy a house?” I ask.
“It was time,” he says over his shoulder. “I wanted an investment, and I liked the bones of this one.”
“The bones? Listen to you.”
“I’ve grown.” He laughs and pushes the door open. “Come on in.”
“Is it okay if I put her down?”
“Sure.”
She struts in and surveys the new surroundings.
The floors are rustic hardwood, the walls a pale beige, and the furniture a soft tan leather.
The comfy kind that sinks with your body.
On the wall are several framed music-inspired pictures and a massive TV.
Across from the couch sits two high-end turntables, a set of headphones, and multiple milk crates filled with vinyl.
It’s still him but steps up from his old bachelor pad.
“Nice.”
“Thanks. Want anything to drink?”
“No, I’m okay. Can I use your bathroom?”
“Door to your left.”
It’s a powder room, so there’s nothing personal to snoop through. The small space isn’t spotless, but it’s clean enough. I wash my hands, and looking in the mirror at my dumb, starry eyes, I psych myself up to get through this without backsliding.
“Can you believe her?” he says when I rejoin him, nodding toward the cat perched on his sofa. “Won’t let me pet her but has no problem claiming my shit.”
“A queen owns it.”
“You would know. Queen recognizes queen.”
Another nickname he used to call me. Another memory I should’ve burned to ash by now.
“We should go,” I say, moving past him to get the cat. But he catches my wrist and pulls me back.
For a breathless moment, I don’t know what he’s going to do or say. Worse—I don’t know what I want him to do or say.
At six-one to my five-five, he leans in, bringing his nose to my neck, close enough that his breath warms my skin. I hesitate, indulging myself before reality smacks me in the face.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out the scent. What is it?”
Desire clings to me like static. I break from his hold and take a second to regulate my breathing. “It’s brown sugar body butter.”
“Yum.” He licks his lips.
Only teasing. I know that. But it’s throwing me off-balance. I twist the ring on my middle finger, rotating it like a dial that could rewind the years before it all got so complicated. Before I started to catch feelings that would stay one-sided.
“Don’t grab me again if you want to keep your fingers,” I warn and scoop up the cat, heading for the door.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and apologetic. “You’re right. I came on strong last night. I was angry, but that’s no excuse. And just now—I shouldn’t have grabbed your wrist. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, Lot.”
A cocky Dice is hard enough to resist. A gentle one? Nearly impossible. “It’s fine,” I say. But it isn’t. Nothing about the way he makes me feel is fine. And he still doesn’t see it. Or doesn’t want to.
I follow him out to his car. He’s always had a passion for classics. This one is an older white Mustang with two black stripes on the hood.
“Plug your phone in,” he says, handing me the charger, remembering when I hadn’t. “Do you have a litter box and whatever else for the queen?”
“The shelter provided some essentials, but I was going to pick up a few more items when the car conked out. I’ll grab them after.”
“We can get them now.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do with your afternoon.”
“This is what I want to do.”
I absently stroke my fingers through the cat’s soft coat and stare out the window.
“You should really name her,” he says.
“She might already have a name.”
“So, she’ll have two.”
“Then you name her.”
“Gladly.” He looks over with that smirk of his. “Queenie.”
The pink collar with sparkles and a tiny silver bell was Dice’s choice. I think she looks ridiculous. No self-respecting cat would wear that with pride. And yet she preens. Tinkly like royalty. Just like he knew she would.
Dice drops me off at the car, then gasses it up and loads the trunk with cat treats, toys, and a fluffy bed he tossed in at the last minute. I didn’t ask him to do any of it or to whip out his wallet and insist on paying.
I’m not used to men handling things for me. I don’t let them, much preferring my independence over relying on someone else. But this afternoon it felt good. The kind of good that would only end up wrecking me. Again.
“Thank you,” I say, my tone more clipped than I intended.
“It was fun, Lot. We should hang out again. Catch up next time. I want to hear all about New York. Talk about whatever misunderstanding might have transpired before you left.”
Misunderstanding? How can he be so dense? So oblivious? Does he not know? Does he think we can just clear the air and pick up from wherever we left off… which was in completely different places?
“Not much point,” I say, sliding Queenie onto the passenger seat and climbing in on the other side. “I’ll be leaving soon.”
“But you’re here for now. Think about it.”
I swallow, my throat tightening. I close the door without answering and turn on the engine. As I pull away from the curb, I glance in the rearview mirror to watch him walk over to his car, that confident swagger still so familiar.
If this afternoon proved anything, it’s that the more miles I put between Dice and me, the better.