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He reclines back on the bed, keeping his upper body propped up on his elbows. “I work with the cats at a local animal rescue.”
“Oh.”
No. No no no. This cannot be allowed. A sexy tattooed man cannot work with cute animals all day. And not just work with them.
If he’s employed at an animal shelter, he’ssavingthem.
Would it be strange if I asked Cole to use his shower to drench myself in icy cold water to suppress my inferno of lust?
Yeah, that would be weird.
“You don’t happen to have a picture of yourself at work…with kittens?” It’s as if I’m in a torture chamber handing out recommendations for the best ways to cause myself the most agony.
Cole shakes his head, sending a riot of relief and disappointment through me.
“My phone is shitty, so I don’t take pictures with it. But I can let you know next time someone drops off a litter, and you can come by and meet them.”
If this is Cole’s birthday, why am I the one getting the best fucking gift in the world?
“That would be acceptable.” I maintain an overly formal tone because I don’t want to terrify Smaug with the excited squeal that’s clawing around in my chest. But I still think it’s unfair that Cole is distractingly gorgeous in addition to working with cute fur babies. When the shelter put out the job ad, it would’ve been good to add a line like…
Applicant must have a face and personality equivalent to a dumpster fire or else every straight woman and gay man in the vicinity of the shelter will die by panty combustion.
Before I experience said mortality, I refocus on the purpose of this evening: salvaging Cole’s birthday. I gather the plastic bag of supplies I insisted Cole stop by the supermarket for me to grab.
“Thank you, mighty Smaug, for allowing me to enter your domain.” I affect a curtsey, then step toward the door we haven’t walked through yet. “Kitchen?”
“Here, I’ll show you.” Cole climbs off the bed and saunters ahead of me. Smaug lies back down and immediately falls asleep on the exposed sheets.
We walk down a short hallway where Cole points out the bathroom. Next, we enter another bedroom, but this one is a barren wasteland.
“Do you have a roommate?” If he does, the guy is a weirdo. There aren’t even sheets on the bed.
“My friend Dash, the mechanic I told you about, moved out a couple of months ago. So not anymore.”
“Think you’ll get another?”
Cole just shrugs, so I leave it be and follow him through the next doorway into a small outdated kitchen. The space is a little shabby, but it’s clean and more spacious than my studio apartment setup. Cheers to cooking where you sleep!
I set my load down on a tiny kitchen table and start unpacking things.
“You didn’t need to get all this stuff, Summer.” Cole picks up the packet of candles. I sprang for the twisty ones because I thought they looked fun.
“Birthdays are rarely about what you need to do. They’re about fun times and weird traditions and”—I reach into the bag and pull out a plastic container with a small cake—“sugar.”
The top is a blank canvas of white icing, but I have that covered. With a little blue bottle of decorating icing, I carefully write out…
Happy Birthday Cole!
I stare at the message. Short and accurate.
And boring. Cole deserves more.
Happy Birthday Cole!* Silver medalist in the New Orleans Swinging Championship.
The cake I got is small, so the message ends up spilling over the edge onto the side and wrapping around the entirety of the dessert.
But Cole’s grin when he reads it is worth every awkwardly drawn letter.
