I walk faster, breaking into a jog for the last few blocks. It’s not until I’m back inside my little studio that I start to relax. Coincidences happen every day. I haven’t been back to Chicago in more than twenty years. I’m wrong about his accent. I have to be.
Chapter Seven
Raelynn
Sunlight warms the porch. I step outside with my morning coffee and a bowl of gourmet kibble. The cat bounds up the steps when he sees me, meowing the whole way.
I should never have fed him all those months ago. Nash is right. Kiki thinks this is his home, and if I let him in, he’ll never leave.
If only I could make him the same promise.
As soon as he finishes his breakfast, he jumps into my lap. I barely hold on to my coffee cup. “I’m not a good bet, buddy. Every time I go out with Hidden Agenda, there’s a chance I won’t come back.”
My shoulder aches—but the memory of the injury is a hundred times worse than any lingering soreness. Kiki gets right under my chin, rubbing his head along my jaw, purring the whole time. “You deserve someone who’ll love you and won’t fuck it all up.”
He flops over, showing me his belly. “Way to make me feel guilty,” I grumble.
I could call one of the local animal shelters. They’ll be able to find him a good family. He’s young—I think—maybe a couple of years old. Now that he’s not starving, he looks healthy. Before I take him to a shelter, I should make sure.
The cat settles down for his post-breakfast nap, and I pull out my phone to find a vet. I’ll get him checked out, then find him a new home.
It’s the right thing to do. So why do I feel like shit over it?
It doesn’t take me long to get an appointment for Tuesday morning. “I’ll get you a carrier tomorrow,” I say, stroking my hand over Kiki’s sleek black coat. “You’re gonna make some family very happy.”
My eyes start to burn. I haven’t cried in four years. Not since I buried Brooks. So why does the idea of this stray cat finding a home with someone else hurt so much?
Get over yourself. He’ll be better off. And so will you.
As if God herself disagrees with my plan to spend the rest of my life alone, my phone vibrates with a new text message.
Nash: Leaving my place now. I hope you haven’t had breakfast yet.
He ends the message with a donut emoji. Oh, God. That better not be code for some weird sex thing. The one time I tried an online dating app, my messages were filled with eggplants, peaches, tacos, bananas, and baguettes. I still don’t understand that last one.
I spend a full five minutes staring at my phone, agonizing over my reply. Nothing sounds right.
Can’t wait!
Too excited.
Haven’t eaten yet.
Too boring.
There better be a maple bar in there.
What if there isn’t? Or worse? What is he’s not actually talking about donuts?
Finally, I send him a single coffee emoji. That’s safe. Casual. Nothing he has to respond to. Nothing too needy. Nothing too serious.
Despite my uncharacteristic chattiness yesterday, I know the score. Nash and I aren’t friends. We’re not dating. He’s my damn handyman. So why did I just spend all that time worrying over what to say to him?
“Shee-it.” I scare the cat, and he jumps off my lap, his tail twice its normal size, then stares at me from the edge of the porch. I should try to calm him down, but my hands are shaking. I doubt my voice is much steadier.
I care what Nash thinks because I want us to be…something. Friends, at least. But maybe more.
Four years is a long damn time. Any woman in your position would be lusting after a guy like him.
