My lightning-fast reflexes come in handy and I get hold of it first. Like a football, I hug it close.
“I’ll give it back after you explain yourself.” I push to sit, surrounded by a mess of dresses, skirts, pantyhose, and some silky-looking things.Ooh la la.
She glances away. “It’s none of your business.”
“Considering I seem to be the subject,au contraire.” I intend to lighten the mood slightly but butcher the French pronunciation.
She marches toward the door as if ushering me out.
“There’s no denying I’m right.”
“You shouldn’t have been in here snooping around.”
“I wasn’t snooping. There is a lot of paper on your shelf.” Scrapbooking materials? “And this caught my eye.” She did too, coming out of the bathroom, fresh from the shower, but this list made me curious. More curious than a cat.
“I should’ve added to the list that you mumble,” she mumbles.
“Do not.”
“You most certainly do. Sometimes.”
“So you admit your not love list is about me?” I tuck it into my pocket for safekeeping.
“I admit nothing,” she says in her smoky accent.
“Should I make up a hate list of my own?” I grab a piece of paper from the shelf. There are a lot of albums and little packages of embellishments.
“It’s not a hate list.”
“Hmm. I’ll use this red piece of paper. The color most often associated with love. Or should I say anger andhate?” I look for a pen and find a pack in an assortment of colors. “Do you scrapbook?”
“I wanted to take it up as a hobby. Turns out that I don’t have many recent photos.”
“We should do something about that.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to print out all of your @chicksdigwolves selfies?”
“Maybe.” I wink.
“Listen, some people just don’t get along,” Cat says, taking the pen and paper from my hand. My skin scorches at her unintentional touch.
I step closer, avoiding a leather boot. “I don’t think you truly hate me. I think there’s interest. Maybe even affection.”
“Not so.” She shakes her head, loosening the towel, but catches it before it tips off her head. I’d love to see her hair down.
“It’s like we’ve been playing a cat-and-mouse game, back and forth, back and forth, bouncing between tolerating each other and wanting to?—”
“Butt heads,” she finishes.
“Bruiser butt. He he.”
With a huff, she says, “You’re like a goat.”
“You mean the GOAT.”
“Is that like a guinea pig?”
“No, G-O-A-T. The Greatest Of All Time. Glad you finally realized it.”
