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Naturally, the cat didn’t show any sign of understanding me.
“Okay… Sparkling water. Where would I be if I was sparkling water?” I tried the fridge, but had no luck. I looked under the sink, in the pantry, and inside most of the cabinets and drawers.
After a thorough search, I pulled out a normal water bottle, eyed it, and then shook it really hard. Meatball tilted his head at me while he watched. “See?” I asked. “Bubbles.”
I poured the water in his bowl, smiling while I waited.
Mr. Meatball lowered his flat face to the water. He looked up at me, and without breaking eye contact, he swiped the bowl off the counter to spill on the ground.
Okay, I thought. Sebastian wasn’t kidding. This cat really means business. I spent the next thirty minutes struggling to remember the proper protocols and failing miserably. He wouldn’t eat the food, which I assumed I’d heated at the wrong temperature. He wouldn’t drink bottled water, no matter how many times I shook it or tried to pass it off as sparkling water. Most frustratingly, he pushed anything I got wrong off the counter.
Mr. Meatball, it appeared, was a freaking tyrant.
It was nearly six in the morning when Sebastian came downstairs fully dressed for the day. He had on an off-white sweater and dark pants. His dirty blond hair was wild and neat at the same time. He regarded the scene in his kitchen. It looked a little like a war zone, and I was sure I looked like a complete mess. I’d planned to roll out of bed briefly, handle the cat business, and go finish sleeping like a normal person. So I had no makeup on, the same hospital gown they’d put me in the night before, and my hair was doing its best bird nest impression. I tried not to feel self-conscious about my bare breasts under the gown, but figured Sebastian was too high and mighty to lower his eyes far enough to notice.
“Having trouble?” Sebastian asked.
“We were just playing,” I said. I tried to flatten my hair discreetly but could feel it springing right back into disobedience. I made a few playful swipes toward Meatball, who hissed and punched me hard on the back of my palm. I forced a laugh, then rubbed my hand when Sebastian wasn’t looking. Ow.
He swept his eyes across the water spilled all over the ground, the tipped over food bowl, and the scratch on my arm I’d suffered when I tried to sweet-talk Meatball and pet him a few minutes ago.
“Did you follow my instructions?”
“Well, the thing is that I sweat when I get nervous. Or when I exert myself too much. Sometimes when I’m turned on, too,” I added. “But of all people, you should know about that last one already.”
Sebastian crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows.
I almost regretted bringing that last part up. But I’d spent four solid months letting all the emotions he’d left me with marinate, blend, and grow into a ripe mixture of anger and embarrassment. I directed most of those feelings at myself, considering he’d told me exactly what was going to happen if we hooked up. But it was easier to verbally harass Sebastian than myself, so there we were.
“So,” I said, clearing my throat. “The notes I took on my palms ran into a little moisture problem by the time I finished dinner last night. I did my best to remember everything, but, well… I hit my head the other day, in case you forgot.”
“A moisture problem?” he asked, voice completely flat.
“I’m sure a guy like you knows all about moisture problems.” I frowned as I heard what I’d just said. “With your hobby of swimming,” I added, even though I could tell it was way too late. “Because…” I trailed off and sighed. “Did I mention I hit my head?”
“You did, about ten seconds ago. But your head injury hasn’t seemed to stop you from dredging up the distant past again and again. It’s like I said. We’d both be better off if we left what happened between us where it belongs. In the past and forgotten.”
“See, that’s the thing. You can’t just say ‘let’s forget it ever happened.’ It happened. Trust me,” I said, thinking of the baby inside me. “It very much happened, and I think it’d be healthier if we addressed it instead of pretending it didn’t.”
Sebastian’s forearms and tattoos were showing beneath the soft material of his sweater. He looked far better than he had any right to look. It was something about the contrast. He was rough around the edges—abrasive, even. But then I’d read Embers. I’d seen the subtle beauty he could put on a page. I knew there was more to him than the grumpy exterior. The soft sweater draped over a hard body meant for dark, intimate things reminded me of that same contrast.
