It’s the other stuff that’s starting to tip the scales.
A short while later, I step out of the bedroom in cargo pants and a long-sleeve black tee, my locs pulled back into a ponytail. The fact that I’m upright and functioning without caffeine is a testament to Dice’s potency.
I reach the kitchen and come to a stop. The box of pancake mix has been knocked over, its contents spilled like snow across the counter and floor. Floury paw prints trail under the kitchen table, where Queenie has dragged her treat bag. She’s torn through the plastic and is nose-deep in her heist.
Dice is crouched, trying to wrestle the bag away from her, but every time he gains ground, she snarls and swipes at him.
“Looks like a standoff,” I say, amused.
“Yeah, and I’m losing.”
No one would ever mistake Dice for cute. He’s too virile for that word. But watching this big, muscular man play a losing game of tug-of-war with a nine-pound cat is low-key adorable.
I kneel beside her. “Girl, you know this is all kinds of wrong.”
Queenie glances up at me, flicks her tail with zero remorse, and keeps eating. Rude. I lift her up. She hisses, but I’ve learned to ignore her drama. I dust off her paws and drop Her Highness unceremoniously on her bed with Spider-Man.
Dice picks up the ripped bag and starts wiping the counter.
“Sorry. She’s a complete menace. You don’t need this hassle.”
“It’s no big thing. She’s your cat.”
“She’s not my cat.”
He pauses and gives me that annoyingyeah, rightlook. “Then why is she still with you?”
“You know why. The shelter is trying to find out who she belongs to. But with her attitude, who’s going to claim her?”
“There are some people who don’t mind attitude.”
I give him a sideways glance. “Are you talking about me?”
“Why would you think that?” he asks, all innocent.
“Whatever, Dice.”
“You know I adore you,” he says, sweeping me into an impulsive kiss. Then lets me go just as fast and grabs the vacuum.
“I can do that,” I say, reaching for it.
He shakes his head. “I got this, Web. Just relax.”
Why is he being so extra? Probably still riding that post-sex high. OnPlay This Cooch—my favorite podcast hosted by two sisters who give hilarious, insightful commentary on sex—they said the high can last for hours, even days. Something about dopamine and oxytocin flooding the system after orgasm, making some people crave closeness.“Don’t get it twisted, my Cooches. With some men, it’s just sweet talk in physical form.”
I heard that.
He finishes up and puts the vacuum away, whistling while he prepares the coffee. Dark roast, heavy on cream, just the way I like it. He hands it to me with a grin.
If he kisses me again, I’m going to smack him. Instead, he says, “How about breakfast? I could try out my eggs in the new pan.”
“Next time,” I say. “I should get going. I have to drop off Queenie, head downtown to the printer to pick up the shirts and finish the album cover. Client’s expecting it tomorrow. Oh, and I’m having dinner with my mom, Rayne, and Uncle Mo, so I probably won’t make it to Docks. Just letting you know.”
He studies me, recognizing the tells. Rambling, fingers drumming on the mug. Signs I’m agitated.
“What’s got you running, Web?”
“I’m not running. I have things to do.”
