She doesn’t purr or rub up against my leg. Nothing as obvious as a show of attention for Malice. She simply makes sure I’ve seen her, then pivots and struts over to her bowl. Once there, she turns to glare at me.
“Yeah, yeah. Coming, cat. And don’t give me that stink eye. You have a smart feeder, so whether I’m here or not, you get your dinner.”
She tosses her head, then licks her mouth.
Maybe she’s still hungry? But she’s already had her dinner. It’s not good for her to eat more. She continues to stare at me.
For a few seconds, we indulge in a game of who blinks first. Then I sigh. A funny twinge pinches my chest. Damn, maybe it’s heartburn?
I nod in her direction. “Fine, okay. But only this time.”
I reach into the fridge and pull out a small, airtight container. Inside is a single piece of Sushi Grade Bluefin Tuna, sourced from the same morning catch that goes to The Edge.
Using my Yanagiba, a Japanese slicing knife, I slice the tuna into three cubes, exactly one centimeter each.
Not a jagged edge in sight. Good. The control I exercised while cutting the fish relaxes me.
I retrieve a small, already chilled porcelain saucer from the refrigerator, and using my culinary tweezers, I place the pieces on the saucer. They’re spaced exactly two inches apart.
Then I walk back to Malice. I set the plate down at the exact intersection of the floor tiles, aligned to the millimeter and in line with her food bowl.
She looks at the fish, then back at me. I swear, she sniffs.
“Sorry, cat. You had your dinner. This is a treat. And only because I last gave you one seven days ago. You’re due one.”
She stares at me balefully.
“Take it or leave it.” I head for the bar.
The sound of Malice chewing on the treat follows me. Good.
I pour myself some whiskey. It reminds me of the drink I had earlier with Ember. Which led to other things. Interesting. I really do need to stop thinking of her.
My phone buzzes. I snatch it up from my pocket. It’s Gideon calling.
"Yeah?" I answer it.
His smirking face appears on the screen. "You want to talk about it?"
"About what?" I ask cautiously.
"You going to pretend like you didn’t decide to get married? Who’s the lucky woman, by the way?” Gideon’s features reflect genuine interest.
"Harper Richie. My sous chef."
I head into my bedroom, pull open the top drawer of my dresser and take in the sight of the hair ties. I remove the one in my pocket and place it with the others.
One, two, three, four, five, six.
My collection is growing. Each time she drops a hair tie, I pocket it. I don’t return it to her. I justify it by saying this helps me manage my emotions. Keep my OCD under control.
One of the hair ties is more worn than the others. That’s the one Ipicked up the day I met her at the nightclub. The day I dropped her off at home.
My holding onto them has nothing to do with the fact that they belong to her. This is my way of coping with my OCD, which flares when I’m under a lot of stress.
I count the hair ties, arranging them again to my satisfaction. My breathing steadies.
Looking at the collection is a visual reminder that I am home. That I can leave behind the tensions of the day.
