“…there are prettier—I mean.” Micah clears his throat, then reaches for my cup to steal a sip of coffee. He keeps looking at me, though.
“Oh yes, lots of prettier men,” I hum, tilting my head as if I’m making a mental list, when really, I’m just taking my time to look at Micah.
The tank top he’s wearing is loose, showing off his chest and sun-tanned shoulders. It’s faint, but I can just barely see the stripes where his tan deepened during our time on the farm.He raises one arm to turn his cap around, somehow managing to show off his bicep and the veins running over his forearm with the simple gesture. Now that the shield doesn’t hide his face, I let my eyes trace over his features as well, from his arched nose to his full lips.
He's gorgeous, but really, it’s the way his eyes, one light, one dark, focus on me that makes my heart flutter.
I smile and clear my throat. “I think I prefer looking at a certain tall, dark-haired, heterochromatic ogre.”
“Mhm, sounds like a real knockout,” Micah jokes along, setting the cup aside. He leans forward, his hands coming to rest on my knees. “But what I wanted to say is—”
“Hello? Someone home?”
We both look around to where the voice came from. I shield my eyes against the sun, squinting to look up at the man who’s walking into our backyard. He’s mostly a tall, broad silhouette.
“You have kittens here.” It should be a question, but the inflection is too flat, making it sound more like a statement. His voice is gravelly and has a heavy accent that I can’t place more precisely than Eastern Europe.
“Uhm, yeah, our roommate has kittens,” I answer, throwing Micah a look, but he’s also squinting at the stranger.
“I rang the bell.”
“Ah, sorry, we didn’t hear, but uhm…who…?”
Thankfully, the guy steps into the shade, so that I can look at him without staring straight into the sun. He’s wearing athletic gear and a baseball cap. His jaw sports heavy dark stubble that’s on the verge of becoming a beard. From under the shield of his cap, he assesses both Micah and me, then pulls out a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
“I was at the animal shelter. Mrs. Vet said to come here.”
“Oh!” I snap my fingers, suddenly realizing where I know the stranger from: he looks entirely different when he isn't wearing a bulky jacket and a whistle around his neck while shouting at his players. From the few times I’ve seen him at Nicko’s games, I formed averydifferent impression of him. He looks almost shy, holding the note from Barb in his large hands, shoulders drawn up like he's aware that he shouldn't be outside of a hockey rink.
“You're Nicko's coach! Mr.…uhm…”
"Kovachev," he fills in gruffly, then shrugs. “Now, kittens?”
I’m taken aback by the blunt attitude, but then again, it’s warm outside, and he must have been waiting at the front door for a while.
“Yes, of course.” I use Micah’s shoulders to push myself up and lead him to our back door.
“How long have you been thinking of getting a pet?”
“My son—”
“What areyoudoing here?”
Our heads whip around to where Fiore is trying to keep a squirming kitten on his lap.
“Someone else interested in adopting a kitten,” I address Olli, trying not to let the sharp looks bother me. Thankfully, Fiore focuses back on the little black furry menace that's stubbornly trying to climb up his chest.
Olli's face morphs through a sequence of grimaces so fast that I'm amazed he doesn't pull a muscle.
“Ah, I'm sorry, but this is the last kitten.” He nods over to Fiore. “And, well…”
“It's still here,” Kovachev rumbles, striding into the living room and leaning over the couch to inspect the kitten over Fiore’s shoulder.
The other man's back straightens, and he pushes himself to the other end of the sofa with a low hiss. “No one in their right mind would letyoutake care of a defenseless animal.”
Kovachev frowns, which transforms him into the man who could get a whole team of D1 college athletes to flinch with one glare.
“I take good care of any animal.”
