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Whew. Thank goodness. Maybe this Outlaw retrieval won’t be such an emotional minefield, after all. Nick’s car isn’t in his usual parking spot, which means he already left for the clinic. I know he’s in charge of the ER today.
I step out on the front porch, then fight off a wave of memories as I walk past the mailbox.
We stood right here, last night.
His arms around me.
His lips on mine.
I jog up his walkway. The front door’s locked, but I know where he keeps his key. I lean down, my hand on the wrapped towel so it doesn’t come loose, and pluck the key out from under the stone frog sculpture by his welcome mat.
The inside of his house smells like him. Cookies and pine body wash and a little bit like sawdust.
I head for the kitchen first. On occasion I’ve found Outlaw drinking out of Mittens’ water dish, or nosing around the silver platter where she gets served her canned cat food.
No wonder it smells like cookies here. There’s a dozen of them on a cooling rack.
I pick one up. Still warm.
I eat it as I traipse up the stairs. I drank an awful lot of coffee today but failed to eat, and I’m not above having dessert instead of something more practical.
Outlaw is snuggled up with Mittens. They’re on Nick’s bed, which is as unmade as the one I just walked away from, over at Pansy’s.
I sit down and smell Nick all over again. Manly, warm smells. I’m betting he didn’t leave here long ago. A damp towel is tossed over a chair, across from his bed.
The smell of his body wash is stronger here.
I stroke Mittens’ cheek, and her motor-like purrs start up. She nuzzles my hand.
“You’re a cutie. Andyou.” I move my hand to pat Outlaw’s back. “You’re a naughty pup. Come on. Let’s go.”
I hook his leash onto his collar, then drag myself up off the bed. When I call for him again, he sighs and unfurls from around his kitten friend. He bows down in a stretch, then hops off the bed.
As we cross the room, I notice a rectangle of white, with a silver clasp attached. Nick’s clinic badge. I pick it up and tuck it in my pocket.
Downstairs, I shoot him a text:“How many of these cookies can I have?”
His response comes in, mere seconds later.“All of them. They’re for you. Peace offering.”
“For what?”
“Blanket peace offering. In case I did anything out of line.”
I smile down at my phone. My thumbs hover over the screen. I don’t know what to say.
Communicating with Nick is so different than communicating with Sylvester. Nick is humble. Sylvester is aloof.
Nick cares.
A lot.
All the time.
Sylvester never cared about me. Not really. I get that now.
Another text comes in from him:“I had fun last night. Did you?”
My toes curl. A sweeping sensation flits through me. My cheeks flush.“Yeah. I had fun.”
