‘So am I. I’ve survived much worse.’ He stretches his long legs out and man spreads the shit out of my tiny living room. ‘See? Comfy as fuck.’
‘I’m not letting you martyr yourself on my shitty couch.’
‘And I’m not kicking you out of your own bed like I’m some kind of diva.’
‘You are a diva. The biggest one I’ve ever met.’
‘Only on Thursdays. Tonight I’m a gentleman.’ He folds his hands behind his head, smug as hell. ‘Look at me, being gallant.’
‘No, you’re being ridiculous.’
‘I’m taking the sofa bed, List Girl. End of.’
‘Okay, fine. Whatever.’ I nod toward the closed door off the hall. ‘That’s my bedroom. And that,’ I jab a thumb at the other door, ‘is the bathroom.’
He’s watching me as if he won something. I cross my arms, refusing to let him fry my executive function any further by his mere presence in my home.
‘Listen, Theo. I’m aware this is a massive pain in the arse for you. I’ll try not to be a total nightmare.’
‘I appreciate the effort.’ Now is the time. I grab the laminated sheet from the counter. ‘To that end, I’ve prepared some rules.’
I hand it to him and he takes it, his fingers brushing mine. A spark zings up my arm and I snatch my hand back.
He reads the title aloud. ‘House Rules for Temporary Cohabitation.’ His lips twitch. ‘So official. Did you use a special font?’
‘Just read it, Lennox.’
‘Rule one: shoes off at the door.’ He glances at his own socked feet. ‘Check. I’m already acing this. Rule two: no houseguests. There’s zero room for any houseguests if we’re both here at the same time. Rule three: do your own laundry, we’re not mixing our delicates, and I’m not your maid.’
‘Most definitely not.’
‘Rule four: always knock.’ His attention drifts to the bedroom door, then back to me. ‘Goes without saying. But Rule five: no sleeping nude might be a problem.’ A slow, wicked grin takes over his face. ‘I can’t be faffing about with jammies.’
‘Oh, you’d better faff,’ I say as firmly as I can.
‘You’re a tyrant, MacMickin. A cute, terrifying tyrant.’
He’s trying to put me at ease. To turn my rigid list of anxieties into a joke we can share. That’s his thing. And damn him, it’s working. The clamp in my gut unspools a fraction.
Elvis decides he’s seen enough. He leaps gracefully from the bookshelf via the chair, landing on the rug with a thud. I brace myself for the usual display of hostility. The hissing, the flattened ears, the slow, menacing tail-swish he reserves for all visitors.
But he just trots forward, tail up like an antenna.
Finn goes still, watching the cat approach. Elvis circles his legs once, and rubs his face against Finn’s ankle with a startlingly loud purr.
I stare, speechless. My cat has defected.
‘Well, hello there, handsome.’ Finn reaches down slowly, letting Elvis sniff his knuckles before stroking him, from the top of his head to the tip of his tail.
Elvis arches his spine into the touch, his purr escalating to the volume of a small engine. He promptly flops onto his side, exposing his belly. A sacred act of trust he has never, not once, bestowed on a stranger.
I’m floored. ‘Elvis doesn’t do that.’
‘Doesn’t do what? Demand affection from devastatingly handsome men? Seems like a smart cat to me.’ Finn grins and scratches Elvis right under the chin.
My cat’s back leg starts to twitch in ecstasy.
‘He…hates everyone,’ I say, still staring. ‘He actively despises other humans. I’ve seen him draw blood for less than risking a glance at him. Ask the plumber.’
