She surprised the hell out of him by leaning over to kiss his cheek. He didn’t want to let the opportunity pass him by, so he turned his head at the last second and captured her lips.
He half expected her to slap him, but instead, she sank into the kiss. Brad opened one eye to make sure no one else was in the cat room—it was the beginning of the midafternoon slump, so it was indeed empty except for the cats—then he put his hand on Lindsay’s cheek and held her there.
She had protested a lot for a woman who kissed him like this, hot and passionate and, well, with a lot of tongue.
Then she pulled away. He tried to follow her, but she put a finger on his lips. “That’s enough,” she said softly.
“Is this how you kiss your other friends?”
She smirked. “Just you, apparently.”
“I’m not a bad guy.”
“I know.” She leaned away and shook her head. “It’s not about good and bad, Brad. It’s not that simple. We broke up for good reasons. I don’t see any reason we could make it work a second time when we couldn’t then.”
Brad nodded, even though he had a counterargument ready to go. They could live happily ever after if they just figured out how to trust each other. Not an easy thing to do. Brad wanted to tell her this, but they’d had a nice moment, and he didn’t want to push it.
“Anyway, I have to go,” she said, standing and shouldering her bag. “I am grateful for your help. I’ll find a way to make it up to you. But I need to go tell my boss what’s happening and get some other work done.” She leaned down and kissed only his cheek that time.
Then she was gone.
She didn’t see any reason they could make a relationship work now? Well, he’d have to show her some reasons.
Chapter 12
The Whitman Street Cat CafÉ was the property of Diane, a retired lawyer who also owned the whole building. She kept things pretty loose and let Lauren run the café however she saw fit, but all significant financial matters went to Diane. Brad had only met Diane a handful of times, but they’d developed a bit of a rapport. She breezed into the café now like she floated in on a cloud.
Diane was in her late sixties, with short bottle-blond hair and an apple-shaped figure. She often wore flowy dresses and caftans, and today was no exception. She wore a loose purple tunic over a pair of white jeans, and Brad could see from her sandaled feet that her toes were painted an iridescent opal color.
He was helping out at the counter because they’d been having a busier-than-usual afternoon. Diane walked up and ordered a tea from Monique, who didn’t even bother to ring her up. Diane handed Monique a purple travel mug with pink flowers painted on it, and Monique dropped a tea bag into it with a practiced hand. That Monique didn’t need to ask which of the dozen available teas Diane wanted said something about Diane’s regularity as a customer.
A brunette woman trailed Diane up to the counter.
“Oh, Bradley, you’re here,” Diane said as if she’d just noticed him there. “That’s fortunate. This is my friend Heather. She’s a reporter for theNew York Times.”
“Wonderful to meet you,” Brad said, sensing that Diane had a motive in introducing them.
“Heather is a features writer, and she’s been hearing things about you and this café.”
“Good things, I hope.” Brad winked at Heather, who seemed a little dour.
“Oh, of course,” said Diane. “The whole city is buzzing about the cute baker who makes treats for humans and cats at the Whitman Street Cat Café!” She sounded like she was inside a commercial.
“I’d love to chat with you,” said Heather, her affect disturbingly flat.
“Yeah, sure. Uh…” He glanced at Monique.
“I’ve got this under control now that the crowd has thinned,” she said. “You can talk now if you like.”
“Wonderful!” said Diane.
Diane led Heather and Brad into the cat room. They sat at the only available table, and Heather whipped out a notepad.
She asked him a bunch of softball questions, mostly the same ones Lindsay had about why he’d wanted to work here and what made him try making cat treats.
Diane excused herself to go back to whatever she’d been up to before walking into the cat café—Brad was vaguely curious about what a semiretired person got up to with her idle time but hadn’t wanted to ask—and after Brad bid her a friendly farewell, he turned back to Heather, who lobbed a few more softballs at him.
During a lull in their conversation, Brad’s phone buzzed, so he checked it because Heather was busy writing notes. It was a text from Lindsay:On my way to Food Channel. Anything I need to know?
