It's In His Kiss (3 page)

 He said goodbye and hung up, then went back to stand at the picture window. Storm clouds were forming to the west. Maybe if it rained hard enough he could use that as an excuse.

Coward
. 

 Glancing at the clock, he tightened his tie and reached for his sports jacket, which was draped over the back of his chair.

 It wouldn't be easy to face his best friend and tell her that he'd been in Nashville for three years and hadn't even tried to call her. He could hear her now. She'd be like a sniper, shooting down all his reasons one by one. The only one that would escape her flawless aim was the real one. The real reason he hadn't called her or tried to see her. The real reason he'd left Nashville in the first place, six years ago.

 Michael pictured her face, and felt the old pain rising in his chest. He rubbed the spot absently. Was he really that much of a schmuck? Was he still hung up on his best friend?

 Only one way to find out, he thought, with a determined snort. Stick his hand back into the fire, and see if it still burned.

 Seemed like a helluva way to spend an evening.

* * *

Cat curled up on the couch, a plate of sliced lemons balanced on her lap and an open can of condensed milk in her hand. She ate a spoonful of condensed milk, then bit bravely into a lemon slice. She shuddered as the sharp tang hit her taste buds, and melded with the rich-textured stuff that was so sweet it made her teeth ache. It was almost as good as lemon icebox pie. 

She wasn't engaged any more, so what difference did it make if she got fat, or if lemon juice ate all the enamel off her teeth?

"Dere wih be no fudure endademens," she declared to the slice of lemon, before she bit into it.
No more rings to return. I surrender to the goddess of spinsterhood
. 

The doorbell rang.

Cat jumped, and the plate of lemons slid off her lap. She lunged and caught it inches from the floor. One lemon slice balanced precariously on the corner of the plate, but the rest stayed put. She carefully tipped the plate, sliding the getaway slice back toward the center.

The doorbell rang again.

 ""Hoo id--?" she stopped, swallowing the mouthful of condensed milk. " Who is it?" she shouted, setting the plate on the end table and looking at the clock. Who'd be coming to see her at midnight
? Please don't let it be Janice bringing Hard Hat Hank to meet me.
 

"Cat? It's me. Are you okay?"

A thrill of recognition slid up her spine. She stared at the door. That couldn't be who it sounded like, could it?

"Cat?" The familiar voice called again. "Cat? Open up!"

"Okay, I'm coming." Cat bit her lip. "M-Michael? Is that you?"

"Who else?"

Cat licked lemon juice off her lips.
Michael.
She wasn't sure how she felt about seeing him for the first time in six years, especially tonight. She didn't particularly want to hear him say
I told you so,
even though he had, many times. 

As she threw the chain off the door, Cat gave a passing thought to her attire. A mid-thigh glow-in-the-dark Halloween sleep shirt was decent, wasn't it? Even in the middle of June.

She glanced down, assuring herself that several disgustingly nubile young things who worked in her building wore shorter dresses to work.

"Cat!"

"Okay, okay." After swiping a finger carefully under each eye just in case, she took a long breath, and unlocked the deadbolt and swung the door open.

"Well if it isn't the late lamented Michael Gray," she said with forced cheerfulness, then waved him in with a flourish worthy of a Regency butler.

"Hi." He stood there with a sheepish grin on his face, as if it had been four hours since they'd seen each other, instead of six years. She smothered a gasp. She'd almost forgotten the impact he made just by walking into a room.

"I can't believe it. I don't know whether to hug you or hit you." She just stared. The sight of him was like a balm to her stinging eyes. His black hair was still too long, curling against his nape, although it was a lot shorter than the last time she'd seen him. His blue eyes were still as incredible as ever.

He looked tanned and fit, lean and hungry.

"I vote hug." He grabbed her and lifted her feet off the ground, hugging her tightly, just like always.

"Oof!" she protested, as she relished the familiar, comforting feel of his embrace.

He laughed, and set her down, a little sooner than she expected. She wasn't through hugging him, so she wobbled as he stepped back and tilted his head, gazing at her critically.

"Wow, Cat. You look great. The hair is--" he gestured vaguely in the air near her head.

"Spiky," she supplied. Her hand darted up self-consciously.

"That's a good word."

"'Happening.' 'Now.' Maybe even 'five minutes from now.' I could go on."

He scrutinized her. "I thought you were growing it out, long enough to sit on, I think you said." Michael’s mouth slowly widened into a grin. "You tried to straighten it again, didn’t you?"

"No, twit, I did not. Long hair gave me a headache. This really is a fashion statement."

His penetrating gaze slid over her, head to toe. "It works."

"Thank you. That stubble you're sporting, on the other hand--." She treated him to a duplicate of his gesture, trying without success to wipe the smile off her face and the warm tingle from her insides. It had been so long since she'd seen her oldest, best friend. Her gaze took in every minute detail of his appearance, like a starving woman eyeing a banquet.

He rubbed his chin. "The stubble is merely the result of too many briefs and too few hours, unfortunately. It is definitely not a fashion statement."

She chuckled at his typical, unselfconscious remark. Michael had always looked great, without even trying. He'd hardly even had a geeky awkward phase. He was tall enough to stand out in any crowd, and somehow, everything he wore looked like a fashion ad. She'd often accused him of staying up nights planning his wardrobe. 

"Oh, of course. I forgot. You never follow fashion, you stumble upon it. 'Michael is, therefore he is fashionable.'"

He shrugged and quirked his mouth in his patented self-deprecating smile. "Yep. I had holes in my jeans way before George Michael or Cher."

"I don't think you ever had a pair of jeans without holes, from working on those refugees from a car graveyard. Poor cars. You couldn't let them rust in peace." She was still grinning, but there was a little niggling twinge of caution under her breastbone.

He was definitely a sight for sore eyes, but how did he happen to turn up, right when she needed a friend?
Don't ask,
a tiny voice whispered inside her.
Just be glad he's here.
 

She pointed at the couch. "Sit down. What are you doing here? When did you get in? And why didn't Sara tell me you were coming home?"
I told you not to ask.
She flopped down and folded her legs under her.  

Grabbing the can of condensed milk, she gestured with the spoon. "Want some?"

"Uh," he raised his brows. "No thanks. I had disgusting sweet stuff for lunch."

She shoved a huge, dripping spoonful into her mouth and spoke around it. "When did you get back from Japan?" It came out as "Hen did ooh get bag fum Hapan?"

He didn't answer, just raised an eyebrow and reached for her spoon.

"Ah--ah-- ah," she said, pushing his hand away with her elbow as she swallowed. "Get your own spoon."

He satisfied himself with sticking a finger into the can, then sucking on it. Propping one denim-clad ankle on the other knee, he licked his lips. "I was right. It's disgusting. How're you doing?"

"Fine." Cat reached for a lemon slice and bit into it. She shuddered.

Michael's eyes widened in disbelief. "
What
are you doing?"  

She shrugged and licked her lips. "It's the same as lemon ice box pie, if you think about it."

"I'd rather
not
think about it, thanks. Aren't you missing the graham crackers and whipped cream?" 

"I'm fresh out." She sucked lemon juice off her finger.

He muttered something she didn't hear, his eyes watching her finger.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head.

She frowned at him. "So--when did you get in? I talked to Sara yesterday. Why didn't she mention you were back?"

Michael's gaze slid away, and he stood and wandered around, pretending interest in her apartment.

Cat was distracted by his broad shoulders and perfectly fitting jeans.
Boy he looked great.
It had been six years since she’d seen him, and he still had a face and body that would stop traffic. He shifted and she immediately recognized his nonchalant I've-got-something-to-hide stance. "Michael?" 

He leaned against the mantle over her nonfunctional fireplace. "This place is nice. Must have cost you a bundle."

"More like a bale than a bundle. Could you kindly quit avoiding my question?"

He ran a finger along the mantle's surface, then scrutinized it. "Actually, Cat--."

Her instincts went on red alert. "Actually Cat?
Actually
? Nothing good ever came out of a sentence that started with 'actually.' Okay, Michael, spit it out. I can take it." 

He looked at her, his mouth barely curling, a flicker of wariness in his gaze. "Actually, I've been back for--a while." He touched a couple of the dozen or so candles sitting on the mantle, then picked up a fat white one.

Her brows shot up. "A while? You've been back for a while?" she repeated stupidly. "Are we talking a while as in a few days, or a while like in a few weeks?"

His gaze faltered. "Actually--I quit my job over there three years ago."

Cat's whole world froze, for about a half-second. Her scalp prickled. Her ears began to burn, and her insides felt like a crater had opened up. "Three--" her voice gave out.

"Yeah." His voice sounded decidedly sheepish, and his attention was on the candle he weighed in his hand.

"Three years," she repeated as shock reverberated through her like an earthquake. She swallowed against a lump that was forming in her throat. "You're kidding, right?"

He shook his head.

"You're not kidding. Well." Her throat had seized, and it was a struggle to breathe. He'd been in Nashville three years and hadn't bothered to contact her. Something deep inside her started to ache.

"So--" she started, but her voice went out on her again. She covered it with a cough, then cleared her throat. "Must be the lemon. So, where've you been for the past three years?"

"In, uh, West Meade."

"West Meade." She nodded sagely. "And you never once--? Wait. She's known all this time? Why--" The hurt grew into a knot under her breastbone. "So is there some particular
reason
you and Sara conspired against me? Or am I being paranoid?" Cat suddenly felt totally alone. Michael had always been the one person she could depend on. Since he'd left, she'd thought she could rely on his older sister.  

Michael had the grace to look embarrassed. "Don't be angry at Sara--."

"Oh, I'm not mad at Sara," she interrupted, waving the spoon she still held. "You don't need to worry about Sara. You need to worry about
you
. Maybe you should go before I
murder
you." She dipped the spoon into the condensed milk, but suddenly, her stomach felt queasy. She set the can aside, with the spoon sticking out of it. 

"Come on, Cat. Don’t you remember what you said to me the last time we saw each other?"

His words evoked that long-ago sunny day, and the two of them hanging out together like they always did. A yearning for those carefree times took hold of her, followed quickly by the uncomfortable memory of the Argument. Capital A.

She frowned and pushed her fingers through her hair. "I don't remember. I was mad at you, but Michael--."

"No," he interrupted. "There's no 'but Michael' about it. We were at the lake. It was right after I'd passed the bar. You said, and I quote, 'I don't ever want to see you again. Ever.'"

Cat winced. "Oh yeah, that."

CHAPTER TWO

Cat chewed on her lower lip as she let her thoughts drift back to that afternoon. The day had started out perfectly. Even now, she could almost smell the hot summer smells of green things growing, sun-baked earth, the hint of rain in the cloudless air, the sharp glint of sunlight on the sandy beach. She'd been so excited, dying to share her news. Her boyfriend Jeff had asked her to marry him, and she'd expected Michael to be excited for her. He wasn't.

"Yeah, well, after all you said to me, you deserved it. We were
supposed
to be friends. You were supposed to be happy for me. But instead, you yelled at me, and poof, you were gone. You left the country. In fact, you left the entire continent." She spread her arms, palm up. "When I said I never wanted to see you again, I had no idea you'd take me so seriously." 

"Oh, I've always taken you seriously, Cat." He folded his arms and leaned against the mantle.

Cat's arms fell limply to her sides. She smiled, but her face felt stiff. "That was supposed to be a joke. You know--we argue, you leave for Japan, must have been because of me. Ha ha--? Joke?" Her voice trailed off at the end.

Michael didn't laugh.

"Okay." She sucked sweet goo off one finger, avoiding his somber expression. "So I was a little harsh that day. I'm sorry. So now you turn up, telling me
oh by the way, I've been in the same town as you for three years
. What's the occasion? Did you have a sudden, irresistible urge to gloat?" 

"I didn't realize The Engagement, starring Catherine Mary Morris, was going to have two sequels. I'd have bought season tickets."

Cat flinched.

"Sorry. That was a low blow."