Kenzie
Getting a brand-new kitten is just what I needed. I know a lot of people swear by a new haircut or working on a revenge body after a breakup, but let me tell you, get a pet. Nothing occupies your time—or your wayward mind—like having a sweet ball of fun to look after.
I almost never think of Lamebrain Lawson or that weird moment at the lighthouse two weeks ago. I’m also convinced that thinking my roommate was leaning in for a kiss was probably an elaborate hallucination. After all, my brain can’t be trusted. A second before that, I’d been vividly imagining my improbable demise.
It’d been immature to avoid Trevor for days afterward, but after pheromonal and emotional confusion on the heels ofbeing scared out of my wits, I needed some time to process. I think everyone can agree that jumping into a new relationship right after being dumped is a bad idea.
Fortunately, I never had to set that boundary with Trevor because on the day we brought home our newest roommate, I realized how wrong my imagination had been. There were no more tense moments or lingering gazes.
Trevor was just…Trevor.
My friendly, easy-going roommate.
Jet, named for her jet-black fur and how she likes to race all over the place, is now healthier than ever—and hungrier than ever as she weaves between my legs, meowing as I open another can of soft food.
“You can really pack these away, can’t you?” I tease Jet while dropping a kiss on Banks’s head.
The cat sling Trevor bought me was the perfect thing to help with Dr. Brooks’s instructions on how to slowly and safely introduce the two very different personalities to each other. Being able to reassure skittish Banks with hands-free snuggles while Jet careens around the house like a fighter plane on steroids has been super helpful.
I support Banks’s back while bending to dump Jet’s food in the tiny pink bowl Trevor bought for her. He also bought her a miniscule collar with rhinestones so she’d be as dressed up as Banks with his assortment of bowties.
Slipping my finger around the base of the can, I offer my fingertip to Banks. He gratefully licks it clean, pawing at the braid over my shoulder.
“Let’s start on pancakes. What do you think?” I ask my favorite cooking companion.
It’s been a lazy morning. My roommate is still sleeping, even though it’s almost noon, but I’m betting the scent of buttery pancakes might lure him out. Trevor got home much later than expected last night since his away game went into the thirteenth inning before ending in an unfortunate loss.
Though I can’t bring myself to watch when my ex is the starting pitcher, I’ve been watching the other Waves games, realizing how much I missed them. Last night, Jet and I bounced around the living room when Trevor’s home run brought in three runs in the top of the eighth. Banks just patiently waited until I sat back down again to curl into my lap for the rest of the game.
I’ve got a fat stack of pancakes piled high on a plate before Trevor stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. His hair is adorably disheveled, his normally clean-shaven face scruffy with yesterday’s growth. What would that stubble feel like? Would it be soft? Would it scratch? I fist my fingers when the unexpected impulse to touch washes over me.
What had I declared mere seconds ago?
We’re just roommates.
And roommates definitely don’t think about sliding their fingers over the other’s masculine jaw.
“I made pancakes,” I announced brightly, holding up the spatula.
Trevor blinks, his gaze drifting from the vase of garden-picked ranunculus on the counter to the stack of pancakes before finally landing on me. Then his eyes widen before he slaps a large hand over them. “What are you doing?”
I glance at Banks, but he, too, has no idea what Trevor is talking about. “Making pancakes. I thought you might be hungry.”
“I am. I’m always hungry, but why…” He pauses with a rough swallow. “Why are you… Um, I don’t think—”
His sentence cuts off in a weird coughing fit as Trevor makes a bunch of random gestures with his free hand.
“That.” He points blindly. “We can’t havethat. I know we don’t have many house rules, but—”
Trevor clears his throat so loudly that Banks twitches in fear. I smooth a hand over Banks’s back while Jet tugs on a loose string on the hem of Trevor’s gray sweatpants, nearly biting his ankle.
“You need to wear pants in the house, Kenzie. I can’t walk into the kitchen and have you Donald Ducking it. It’s—” The rest of that sentence drops off with an exhale that’s half sigh, half groan.
What is he talking about? I glance down, realizing that my sleep shorts are completely covered by the hem of the hoodie Trevor loaned me on the beach—something I should have given back that day but can’t seem to part with.
“I’m not.” A giggle spills out of me as I lift the edge of the sweatshirt. “I’ve got shorts on. Look.”
After a breath, Trevor peeks through his fingers like a kid afraid of a haunted house. A thick pulse of warmth floods my chest at the sight. How can a grown man be this adorable?
