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Harry cocks his head.
“Never mind.” I reopen the door to the porch and try herding Sally back into the house.
Yeah, no. There’s a good reason we compare impossible tasks to the herding of cats. It’s a nightmare.
Returning to the kitchen, I rummage through all the drawers until I hit paydirt: dry catnip in a bag.
My grin is evil as I ready the stuff. If Sally is one of the many cats who respond to nepetalactone—which is a great Scrabble word and happens to be the chemical in catnip that gives felines a high—I will not only get her back into the house, but I will probably be able to groom her without risking life and limb. Hell, I could probably get her to use the bane of every cat’s existence: a cat carrier.
Armed with the bait, I walk out onto the porch. “Hey, kitty. Your friendly neighborhood drug dealer is here.”
Yep. Sally is clearly a junky already, which makes sense. Why else would Evan have it? Then again, if he has this, why can’t he use it to give Sally a bath?
Soon, I find out why. Though Sally wants catnip enough to return to the house, she doesn’t want it badly enough to get anywhere near the bathtub. All I manage to do with the catnip is brush and trim her fur in a few places—which, hey, is still grooming.
“I guess it’s a good thing you don’t actually need baths,” I say to Sally when she hisses at my final attempt to give her a wash. “Not unless you fall into cold soup, like one of my client’s cats did.”
“You’re lucky her claws didn’t come out,” Evan says from behind me. “I told you she doesn’t like baths.”
I spin around. “I didn’t hear you come back.”
“Sorry about that.” He puts a shopping bag on the table. “In my defense, I wasn’t being stealthy—you were just so preoccupied with grooming Sally that an elephant could’ve tumbled in.”
“A sexy elephant.” Wait, what?
Evan’s forehead wrinkles. “Thanks?”
“What’s for breakfast?” I demand grumpily.
Evan tells me, then prepares a Japanese-style omelet as I watch and drool.
When we start eating, I stare at his mouth, wondering if it was always this fascinating. I also blush every time I get a glimpse of his tongue because it reminds me of the dirty things he did with it last night. Things that?—
“What are your thoughts?” Evan pours me some tea.
“I’m not going to be ready for anal,” I blurt. “Not anytime soon.”
“Good to know.” Evan grins. “But I was asking as to your thoughts on whether we should drive to St. Petersburg or Miami today.”
Even when he played with my butt last night, I don’t think my cheeks turned this shade of crimson.
“Either one is fine,” I mumble, wanting to sink through the floor. “Your choice.”
“Then how about we head to St. Petersburg?” Evan says. “We can swing by the Salvador Dali Museum there. My grandfather was a big fan of his, so who knows, maybe that will somehow help you get a clue.”
Get a clue is what I need to do before I talk about readiness for anal again. “What else was your grandfather into?”
Evan stands up. “Can I tell you on the way?”
“Sure. Do you have any photo albums, or anything else involving your grandfather?”
He smirks. “If you want to see baby pictures of me, just say so.”
Rolling my eyes, I help him fill the dishwasher—another domestic task that leaves me feeling unsettled. Afterward, I swing by my place to change, and when I join him in the car, he hands me a photo album.
Score! There are uber-cute baby pictures of Evan. In some, he is with his mom, and in others with his dad—whom he resembles quite a bit. I know how much his mom means to him, so I ask questions about the memories captured in these photos, and he tells me all about the many special moments he shared with her growing up. The grandfather pics are a minority here, but I do locate some, including one at some formal event where he is hugging Evan.
Damn. My mouth waters as I take in Evan in a tux, tie, and what looks like an obscenely expensive watch on his wrist.
