“Marking his territory. Mature. Very mature,” I mutter, then laugh, a flush spreading over my face. Is it weird of me to be pleased that he was so possessive last night? It makes me feel like I matter—and that he cares. Even my own parents didn’t care what happened to me as long as they never got a call from school.
I shower quickly and put on a red tank top with cotton boxer shorts, then follow the heavenly aroma of fresh coffee to the kitchen. Noah’s in there, dressed only in shorts. The sunlight pouring in through the windows hits his body just right, showing off the incredible lines of his abs and shoulders that make my breath hitch. But the best part is his forearms. He practices martial arts—he didn’t take me down with a quick judo move by just being pretty—and he has forearms that a top-level practitioner would envy. They’re thick but so lean that every muscle and vein is visible. Most importantly, they’re strong. When he grips you, it’s nearly impossible to get away.
And right now, he’s hanging on to me with everything he’s got, in every way he can.
His back and shoulders are scored with scratch marks going every which way, which is a little embarrassing—I marked him up pretty well, too. Guess I lost control, but he drove me absolutely crazy. It was probably the best sex we’ve ever had.
Noah hands me a mugful of coffee. “Here. With a dash of sugar.”
I raise my eyebrows and take a sip. “You remembered.”
“Of course.”
I sigh with appreciation as caffeine starts to seep into my veins. “You make the best coffee. I don’t get it. It’s the same machine, same beans and same water, but it tastes better when you do it.”
“Because I make it withlurve.”
I laugh.
But he continues, “It’s the same way you bake better than me even though we use the same recipe, oven and ingredients.”
“Because I bake it with love?”
“I believe you do.” He flashes me a wide grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
This scene feels so blissfully ordinary, a normal vignette out of a regular couple’s life. I’ve dreamed of having that with Noah, but it’s a little weird to experience after having decided it would never happen. When I wanted it I couldn’t have it, but after I gave up, thinking it wasn’t in the cards for me… Now I get to live it. Why?
To hide my unsettled emotional state, I drop my gaze. Señor Mittens seems to have no such existential uncertainty as he tucks into his breakfast. “What’s he eating?” I squint. “Are thosebugsin his cream?”
Noah chokes back a laugh. “No, I wouldn’t feed Señor Mittens bugs! Ew.” He pulls out a bag of egg bagels from my pantry, the movement easy and familiar. He must’ve been busy reacquainting himself with my home while I was sleeping. “Want one?”
“Yes. But whatarethose black things?” They might not be bugs, but they definitely look iffy. I’ve never seen cat food that looks like that.
Noah cuts the bagels and dumps them into the toaster. “Fish eggs. Caviar, to be specific.”
“You’re feeding my catcaviar?”
“He already ate the filet mignon.”
I gape. “You gave him filet mignon, too?”
He nods. “Caviar doesn’t provide all the proper nutrients. You didn’t know that?”
His tone says he’s shocked I didn’t know, but I’m too stunned to comment on that. “Butcaviar?Andfilet mignon?” Then it hits me, and my eyes narrow. “Just how long have you been feeding him?”
“As soon as it became clear how important he was going to be in my quest to get another chance, and I ramped my efforts up after you bought that ring. But don’t worry. I’ve varied his diet—beef, tuna, wild salmon…” he says when he notices my expression. “I’ve beenveryconscientious about Señor Mittens’s health and nutritional needs.”
Oh my God.“So what have you been doing? Lurking around, luring him outside so you could feed him?”
“Uh,no. That would be weird and stalkerish. I just fed him here when you weren’t home. Or, you know…were sleeping.”
“I changed the locks!”
He gives me a look. “And? Come on. You know that no lock can keep me away when you’re the only one I want.”
There it is again. He constantly tells me I’m the only one, so I should be used to it. But every time he says it, my heart still leaps like it’s the first time. “That explains why Señor Mittens refuses to touch my food.” I try for a normal tone of voice, not wanting him to know just how deeply he’s affecting me. We haven’t established all the ground rules and expectations, and while the sex is fabulous, sex was never the reason our relationship faltered.
“Nothing beats a sashimi-grade ahi tuna steak topped with caviar.” His light tone is a little forced. He’s aware of my unease and is trying to keep the mood from growing too heavy.
