Ethan’s eyes flickered for a moment, as if he’d short-circuited. As if he wished he’d been the butter. As if he’d have licked the butter off her lips if she’d just asked him.
“I’ve been thinking of getting another cat,” Cali said offhandedly. “You know, to keep Max company?”
He froze, then dropped his head between his hands. “Cali …”
“I said it again, didn’t I?”
He nodded, and they both burst into laughter. “Drink up, Jacobs. But not too hard,” he advised, his voice softening again. “I’d hate for you to be too dizzy to enjoy the main course.” There was something almost devilish about the way he said it. “Your turn to ask me something.”
As the meal simmered, they talked and teased in circles—about music, about the town, about how that wordcatsomehow blurted from each of their mouths at least once every ten minutes. Ethan’s laughter came easily, rumbling through the narrow kitchen, and Cali’s tension loosened every time it did. As the sauce thickened, the lamplight got hazy, the room softened with steam and candlelight, and the scent of thyme and buttercurled around them. By the time the timer buzzed, she couldn’t tell whether her cheeks were flushed from the wine or from him.
The pot finally settled into a low bubble, so had she, comfortably, beside him at the table. Thecoq au vinwas warm and filling and fall-apart tender. The perfect autumn dish.
As he ate, Cali noticed Ethan’s tattoo sleeve was a collage of small, interlocking images—a compass, a hammer, several drawings that looked like cats. Not random, she realized now. He lifted his fork as he ate, and her eyes followed the motion, the way his tendons pulled tight, the edge of ink curling just past his elbow. The design shifted as he flexed, and she had the ridiculous urge to reach out and smooth her palm over the lines.
Then she remembered the one she’d seen on his back that first day they both tried to catch Max.
“Tell me about the cat tattoo on your back,” she blurted suddenly, cheeks flushed.
The question caught him off guard, as if he hadn’t expected her to remember what he looked like half naked. He laughed, low and deep. “That’s another sip. You’re terrible at this.”
She hadn’t even realized. “You distracted me,” she accused.
He shook his head. “I didn’t say a word. Especially nottheword.”
“You didn’t have to. The food. The company. I’m officially distracted.”
His knees grazed against hers beneath the table, accidentally at first. Then, when she didn’t draw hers back, they stayed pressed together. It was as if her whole body leaned toward his without her permission.
“That’s a tattoo of Remy, my first cat, before Catsby. He was a runt and scared of everything.” Ethan smiled to himself, remembering. “He thought the safest place was on my shoulder, so that’s always where he stayed. From the moment I got home, he climbed up there. He even stayed while I cooked.”
“Impressive.”
“It was more than that. He was like your Charley. Special. One of a kind. He was mysoulcat.”
“What happened to him?”
“He got kidney disease. We tried fluids and a special diet for a while, but eventually that’s what took him. Heart-wrenching. Would not recommend it. As if any of us has a choice.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I know what that’s like, when they’re gone but still everywhere you look.”
Their eyes met, and something warm flickered between them. All she wanted was for the air in the room to keep buzzing like this—but without the sadness. So she reached for her wine and said, “Okay, new game, please. Time for something lighter before I cry into mycoq au vin.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “I have a few ideas.” He grinned while dragging his fork through his plate of nearly-eatencoq au vin.
Cali bit her lower lip. Ethan rubbed the back of his neck.
“Let’s make it a little more interesting,” he suggested. “Forget Word Trap. New game: Truth or Kiss.”
Before she had a chance to protest, he reached a hand across the table and touched the gray streak above her forehead, twirling it through his fingers. “Tell me about this. Is it dyed that way on purpose or …?” His voice trailed off.
She swallowed hard and tucked some hair behind her ear. She tried to laugh it off with “Oh, that’s just trauma.” But his closeness and the rising heat, despite open windows, was already making her blush.
“Trauma?” he asked.
“Wait,” she said. “Isn’t it my turn to ask you a question now?”
“Nope. No vague answers. You can’t leave me hanging like that. What do you mean by ‘trauma’?”
