Page 71 of Something Borrowed

When she got back to the kitchen, not a trace remained of the tuna. A few splashes of water on the floor suggested the cat had taken a drink, too, but the cat itself was nowhere to be seen.

Then Cal arrived back. Having, apparently, bought out the pet section, he needed to make two trips to bring everything in. A stainless-steel litter box—great choice because it wouldn’t hold odors the way plastic ones could over time, or so the kid working the department had told him. A box of litter that apparently clumped and sealed away all odors. A box of dry kibble and a case of wet food. A shiny purple collar and matching leash—just in case it was needed, for some reason. What looked like a fishing rod with a variety of different feathery toys you could attach and dangle for the cat to play with. Two raised cat dishes that looked like toadstools. Vic did a double take when she saw them.

“I know.” Cal grinned. “Over the top, but I couldn’t resist them.”

Vic was surprised—and not—by the receipt total.

“Please just send me half,” Cal said.

“What? Why—no, it’s fine,” Vic assured him.

“Nah, I went overboard knowing I wanted to chip in . . . as a Christmas present for the little freeloader.”

“A Christmas present for the cat who might not be my cat?”

“Exactly.”

“Should I name her, or wait to see if someone claims her?”

Cal shrugged. “It does seem awkward to keep calling it ‘It’ or ‘The cat.’”

“Good point. If I ever see her again, long enough to figure out a name that suits her, I’ll text you what I decide.”

“I can’t wait.”

The funny thing was, Vic thought he meant it.

Cal reached for the doorknob, and Vic had the lamest desire that he would stay—not just because she found him wildly attractive but because she wanted to . . . continue doing low drama, homemaking stuff with him, like more fix-it jobs and cat rescues . . .

Was it just her, or did he seem to be waiting for something?

Eventually, as the silence stretched, he smiled and said, “Merry Christmas, Vic. I’ll be in touch before the New Year, and hopefully we can hammer out the rest of the list.”

And then I’ll have no excuse to see him regularly. The thought struck with surprising weight. She’d never had a man in her life that she just talked to and hung out with. Every relationship had been, well, a relationship. Somehow, she’d achieved the impossible with Cal, despite all the awkwardness and missteps on her end in the beginning. He really did seem like a friend.

She looked into his warm brown eyes and knew she was kidding herself. She didn’t just want friendship with Cal Anderson.

But what did she have to offer him? She was a mess. A mess intent on cleaning herself up, sure—but intent was meaningless without real, measurable, observable change.

Devil and Angel were both silent, but Madeline’s gentle but firm voice filled her head.

We can’t put off living until some magic, perfectly healed time. It doesn’t exist. Some of us are always going to have scars. It’s just a matter of finding someone who will be tender with ours—and doing the harder job of being tender with ourselves.

The words were out of Vic’s mouth before she was even sure she could muster the courage for them. “What are you doing on Boxing Day?”

“No plans, so sure, if that’s a good for you, I can come over and get some work done—”

“Actually,” Vic paused, hit by even more nerves. The depth of her insecurities was bottomless, it seemed. But still, their flirty night had been ages ago, and he hadn’t given a hint of wanting more since then. Maybe he didn’t think of her romantically anymore . . .

“Actually,” she repeated, “I was wondering if you wanted to go to this open house thing with me on the 26th. It’s at Madeline’s.”

Cal nodded slowly, then looked uneasy or reluctant or something. “I hate to be a dunce here, but I have to ask, just to be clear like.”

Vic nodded.

“As friends, right?”

She nodded again. “Definitely as friends, but um, also . . . like as a date? I’m asking you on a date.”