Page 6 of The Tiger in the Sack

Vito had somehow slipped out of his helmet and was now sitting close to her feet, looking up at Tig with fixed attention. They were both doing that attention-seeking tail swish at each other.

“Do you live around here?” she asked.

I gestured at the building behind us.

Something moved across her expression, quick, there and gone. “I just moved in. A week ago.”

Huh.

The Rhinehaus. My building. Chris had bought me the penthouse when I’d been drafted. I bought the rest of the building when I moved to Cinci that summer.

This was mine. Twelve units. I’d never needed to know my tenants, the management handled itself, everything was clean and separate and exactly how I wanted it.

“Small world,” I said.

“Very.” She shifted Tig to a better position and he made himself comfortable across her shoulder like an expensive scarf with poor attitude. “Now that we’re down, and out of danger, you take off the helmet, safety first guy.”

I was enjoying the way she was looking at me, at the helmet, mostly, doing the thing where she was trying to figure out what was underneath it through sheer force of attention.

Nobody looked at me that way. They looked at the name, the number, the family. Nobody stood on a sidewalk and tried to figure out the actual person under the helmet.

“You’re not going to take the helmet off,” she said. Not a question. More like confirmation of a theory.

“This is the way.”

The bright laugh I’d been going for all along burst out, and I wanted to hear it a million more times. “The Mandalorian’s helmet rule is a foundational religious doctrine rooted in cultural trauma and community survival. Not a personal aesthetic preference.”

My oh, my. Sassy, curvy, and nerdy? “Maybe you wouldn’t have survived without my culture and community.”

“Maybe you should let people you help out of trees see your face.”

“Next time,” I said.

One eyebrow went up. She had very expressive eyebrows. I was noting that in a completely detached and objective way. Also, I wanted to lick them. And each and every one of those freckles.

“There’s going to be a next time?”

“Depends.” I nodded at Vito, who had not moved from his position near her feet and appeared to still be engaged in whatever negotiation was happening with Tig overhead. “I was thinking I could take you out on the bike sometime. If you wanted.”

The pause that followed was the kind you felt. Deep in your gut.

“I don’t know anything about you,” she said.

“You know I climbed a tree in motorcycle boots to get your cat. You know I’m not a serial killer who would drop you.” I paused. “You know I’m both a Star Wars nerd and a fan of The Princess Bride. You know my cat has a better wardrobe than most people.”

She looked at Vito.

Vito looked back at her with absolute confidence. He knew he was cool as shit.

Something shifted in her expression. Softened. Just a little. Just enough.

“Okay, Cat Daddy,” she said.

Cat Daddy. Man on motorcycle. Helmet on. Cat in coordinated leather. Shows up to tree-related emergencies without being asked. Fuck yeah, I’m your Cat Daddy.

“Is that a yes?” I asked.

She looked at me for a moment directly, through the visor, still doing that thing where she was solving the riddle that was me. Then reached into the pocket of her Chadwick Cheer sports shorts and pulled out her phone.