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“Not many.” I tried for a pragmatic tone, but all the divorces, remarriages, and divorces again I’d seen over twenty years in the navy gave my voice a bitter edge. “God, I’m not sure why anyone tries a long-term relationship. Even the happy ones always have cracks.”
“Cynical much?” Holden rolled his eyes, but Sam took on a more thoughtful expression.
“Maybe some couples truly are in love. Touch. Support. Connection. Those are legitimate human needs.”
“Maybe.” Unbidden, an image of Knox beckoning me to dance popped into my head. I’d never thought of myself as touch-starved or the sort of person who needed that intense spark of connection, but then there he was, and there we were, and all I could feel was need on some fundamentally primal level.
Our trivia team lost again in the second round, and as we headed out into the cool summer evening, I kept coming back to that need. Want was easy and simple. I’d wanted Knox from the first moment I’d seen him standing in the club, but need was messy and complicated, something I’d always tried to avoid. Need was the precursor to hurt every time.
But as I climbed the porch steps at Aunt Henri’s house, my pulse quickened. Knox’s little compact was in the driveway. The scent of something Italian—saucy and cheesy—greeted me, but the kitchen was empty, dishes neatly stacked in the drainer, counters wiped, the remnants of a pasta dish in the fridge, and a very irritated cat perched on the breakfast nook table.
Meow. Meow. Rawr. Wallace did an excellent impression of a pissed-off bobcat, with vocal complaints and restless pacing.
“What’s the matter, kitty? Hungry?” I checked the cabinets, which held more people food than the day before, but no cat chow or cans. Knox must have taken the cat-feeding supplies up to the third floor.
“Knox?” I called out, but there was no reply.
Meow. Meow. The cat was increasingly desperate, marching to the back stairs, looking back over his broad feline shoulders to ensure I was following.
Hmm. Was something wrong? I took the steps faster, calling out again, only to be met with more silence. No Knox anywhere on the second floor, including the main bedroom suite, but the priming I’d spent all afternoon on was finished, brushes washed and supplies in organized piles.
Fine. I supposed I had no choice but to investigate the third floor.
“Knox?” I yelled at the base of the stairs. No answer. Wallace zoomed ahead, making more angry meows. But his feline pleas didn’t reveal Knox. The daybed was carefully made with a colorful comforter I hadn’t seen before. A biography of Frida Kahlo lay near the pillow and a stack of sketchbooks sat on the drawing table, one of which was open to a photo-realistic drawing of Wallace lounging on the daybed while another showcased an impressive freehand floor plan of this house. Despite Wallace’s continued complaints, two bowls full of water and cat chow were placed on a woven mat in the corner.
Huh. Feeling slightly ridiculous, I peeked into the bathroom and opened the little closets tucked under the eaves. No Knox. Maybe he’d gone out, a thought that unsettled me. He’d said he wouldn’t hook up here. But what about elsewhere? Bah. He was a grown adult, something I kept wanting to ignore, and if he wanted to go out by foot or in someone else’s car, that was his business. I hated the way my abs clenched like I had any claim to Knox and his time.
I was about to head back downstairs when I saw a shadow outside the largest of the attic windows, the one with a narrow mock balcony.
“Knox?” I raised the cracked window.
“Lieutenant Butter.” He lay on his back, looking up at the glittering night sky. “How’d you find me?”
“Your cat misses you,” I said, like that justified barging into his room.
“I’m sure he does.” Wiggling slightly, Knox adjusted his position, but he kept his gaze on the sky, not me. “He wanted to come out here, but it’s not safe for him.”
“I’m not sure it’s safe for you either.”
“I’m fine. This section of the roof is plenty sturdy. I won’t lean against the railing, but the view is worth the minor risk.” His voice had an off quality about it, too mechanical, too flat, too dismissive, too something.
“What’s wrong?”
“You mean other than the hot guy I made out with yesterday doing his level best to avoid me?”
Oops. Apparently, my efforts to be distant hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Sorry. I…I’m not trying to be rude.”
“Oh?”
“Guess I failed there. I’m sorry. You deserve—”
“I am so over hearing about what I deserve. I deserve someone my own age. I deserve time to have fun and explore. Getting warmer?”
He was dead-on, and he likely knew it. “Sorry.”
“It’s not only you. Everyone has opinions. I deserve one of the best architecture schools in the country. I deserve a well-paying career, a life in some big city, a suit-and-tie job in a high-rise, paid-off student loans, a nice car. I’m too smart, too talented, too…everything for anything less.”
