“It’s cat food.”
I spin around to find Mr. Baylin standing at the edge of his yard.
“Sorry?”
“Cat food. That friend of yours asked me for some cat food after he got done cleaning up your mess.”
It’s notmygoddamn mess. It’s those devil birds who I realize have not been in the yard all morning. But if Norththinks he’s going to solve my problem by luring in stray cats, he’s got another thing coming.
I like them better than crows, but only because they make less of a mess. I don’t want to sit around worried that no one is taking care of them. I barely remember to feed myself, but seeing skinny, lonely cats will destroy me.
“I don’t want cats,” I tell him, swiping my palms over my jeans as I stand up. I wince as pain shoots up from my hip along my spine, and it takes me a moment to regain the ability to move my leg.
Mr. Baylin watches me, and when I’m moving again, he sighs like I’m being the world’s biggest moron. “The kibble is for the crows. They like cat food. They also like hot dogs, but I never keep those around.”
Great. Now North is trying to pawn his fucking birds off on me? Am I going to have to put cat food out every day to keep them from breaking into my garbage cans? And god, that’s going to mean even more bird shit on my railing, which I need to use to get up to my front door because my hip is permanently fucked.
Anger rises in me before I realize it’s happening, and it reaches a boiling point before I can pull it back. I am so fucking done. I’m done with him meddling. I’m done with him making my life harder.
I’m done with him kissing me and touching me and then acting like it means nothing!
Without really thinking, I grab the plate and dump the cat food, then turn on my heel and march up the street. This walk is familiar, and so is this anger, but my head is clearer than it was last time, so I might be able to rip him a new one coherently and not end it collapsing in his arms with another seizure.
I have no idea if North is home, but if not, I can leave a strongly worded note on his doorstep with his damn cat kibbleso maybe he’ll finally keep his birds and himself where they belong: anywhere but in my life.
The walk isn’t long, and as I see his place come into view, I freeze.
Has his place always looked this…I hate to say shitty, but it needs some serious work. It’s not the worst house I’ve ever seen. It’s not on the verge of being condemned or anything, but half the porch is covered in wood rot, while the other half by the front door looks like it’s been freshly redone. Though it’s not finished. The wood is unsanded and unstained.
I can see shingles on his roof peeling up, and big chunks of siding are missing. The place looks like it might fall apart in a stiff breeze.
How did I not notice when I was in there before? How had I not noticed all the times I’d gone past it when I was walking the neighborhood?
Of course, I know the answer to that. On my walks, I was doing everything I could to subconsciously avoid his presence, including blocking out where he lived. And the time I marched up there with my disgusting, sorry excuse for spaghetti, my head was misfiring so badly I could barely remember my own name.
I take it all in now though. It’s the least I can do. I have no idea why his place is such a mess, but I’m going to do my best not to judge him. He very much seems like the kind of guy who’d buy a project house, get one thing done, then give up. Which maybe isn’t fair, but I’m not sure he’s earned me being fair.
I hesitate as I approach the steps, using my cane to balance with extreme care because the stairs squeak loudly, and I’m not convinced they’re going to hold my weight. They also look freshly done, but if North is doing the work himself, well…
I raise my fist to knock, but unfortunately, the door wasn’t latched all the way because the force of my hand sends it flying inward. My hip gives way almost immediately, and I topple overthe jamb and land on my hands and knees in the middle of his living room.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but first, I see the couch, and I have a vague memory of lying there after my seizure. I don’t remember much about that. My brain is always fogged when a seizure hits, but I recall the feeling of his hands on me with frightening clarity. And it leaves a burning want in my gut as I climb to my feet.
I straighten my shirt out, then bend over to grab the metal plate and my cane when North suddenly dances into the room. He’s got massive headphones on, and his eyes are closed as he rocks his hips to the beat, sending white-hot something shooting right to my dick.
He’s got very short, very tight shorts and a tank top on, and his damn hat is on backward the way he always wears it. He looks like he belongs on a damn magazine cover and not working in some small-town fire station.
As I lick my lips, he lifts his arms, and I see his abs—mostly bare save for a snake tattoo that wraps around his hip—and my mouth goes instantly dry. It’s the weirdest feeling in the world, to detest the sight of him but also to want to climb him like a tree and hump his abs until I come.
Fuck.
There is something wrong with me.
I swallow against my painfully dry throat as I watch him move his body to the beat of his music. I feel frozen to the spot as I watch him dance, and then he turns with a grin, mouthing along to the song until his gaze catches on me.
I hadn’t realized that he was holding a mop in one hand and a phone in the other until they both clatter to the ground. Then, in an almost panic, he rips his headphones off and throws them so hard they hit the wall on the other side of the room.
Silence rings between us louder than church bells.
