“Yeah, that’s what you say now. Let’s see what you do when I try it.”
He put down his beer. Crossed the salon. The little cat froze at the sound of his footsteps, cringed from the approach of his hand. He scooped it up anyway. It twisted—one second of clawing panic—and then, much to his surprise, collapsed bonelessly against him. Like a lapdog.
Or a baby.
He rubbed its chin with his thumb, undeniably flattered when a rusty purr vibrated from its throat. Jesus, he was pathetic. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up like one of those old ladies, living alone with thirty or forty cats for company.
Maybe he should move back north, like his ma wanted him to do, take a job in security somewhere, let one of his sisters-in-law fix him up with one of her single friends, a nice Catholic girl from the neighborhood.
He wasn’t looking for true love. Just somebody to share the loneliness and maybe raise a family with. He was thirty-eight years old, for Christ’s sake. He didn’t want to turn into one of those doddering dads on the sidelines, too old to teach his kids to throw a ball or ride a bike. Too out of it to know when they were screwing up.
He grabbed his beer and carried the cat out on deck.
Somebody was biking along the wharf on one of the heavy tourist bikes. A woman. Lauren, wobbling along on big fat tires with a bright pink basket, her skirt working its way up her thighs as she pumped along.
She had great legs, firm and smooth and lightly golden, and her dark hair lifted in the breeze from the sea, and everything inside him lifted, too.
She skidded to a halt at the edge of the dock, bracing herself with both feet, trying to balance the weight of her basket. What the hell did she have in there?
She tilted her head, studying his face, like she wasn’t sure of her welcome. “Hi.”
He was so glad to see her that his throat constricted. He unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Hi.”
Those wide, dark eyes narrowed a fraction. “Everything all right?”
My ex-wife called, he thought of saying, but that seemed like a lousy opening to an evening that suddenly looked much better. Especially when Lauren had biked all the way out here to see him. Why ruin the mood? “Fine.”
Her look said she wasn’t buying his answer, not completely, but instead of challenging him, she smiled. “I brought dinner. Mind if I come aboard?”
He set down his beer. “Let me give you a hand.”
“I’ve got it.” Her gaze dropped to where he cradled the cat with one hand against his chest. Her face got all soft. “Aw. You still have the kitty.”
He nodded.
She unstraddled the bike—her skirt hiked up even more, very nice—and kicked at the stand. “I thought you were giving it to someone to take to the shelter.”
He shrugged, embarrassed. “Yeah, well, the volunteer was busy, so...”
“So you had no choice. Youhadto adopt it.” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were warm. “What a—”
“Sucker?” he suggested.
“I was going to say nice guy, but I know you don’t like that word.”
He looked away, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
She hauled two bags from the bike basket and approached the boat. The plastic handles fluttered in the wind, startling the kitten, who squirmed.
Jack adjusted his hold. “Easy, tiger.”
Lauren smiled. “That’s her name? Tiger?”
He hesitated. Glanced down at the stripes, gray on gray.Sure, why not?“His name.” He’d checked. “Yeah.”
She arched a brow. “Big name for a little cat.”
“A guy’s gotta dream.”
