It's In His Kiss (9 page)

Cat yawned. "Instead of the one that's about four steps away from your bed and attached to your bedroom?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. The shower in here is better."

"Well, should I use yours?"

"No!" he snapped, as he rinsed the razor. "I mean, I'm nearly done now. I'll use my bathroom in the future."

Cat waited at the door as he loaded up toothbrush, toothpaste and dental floss into his shaving kit. She couldn't avoid looking at him. He was right there in front of her, shirtless, with blue boxers on and nothing else, well except for the coating of shaving cream on his face. Something decidedly uncomfortable was going on in the pit of her stomach. Deb was right. He was gorgeous. Every last inch of him. When had his shoulders gotten that broad? When had he developed those abs? She looked him up and down until her eyes lit on the boxers, and suddenly, they commanded all her attention.

"Uh, Michael?"

"Yeah?" He slung a towel around his neck.

"What the hell is that on your boxer shorts?"

He looked down, as if he'd only just noticed them. He glanced up at her, glowering under his brows. "Nothing. Song titles."

She tilted her head and squinted. "Oh, man! It's a picture of Carrie Underwood." She bit back a giggle. "Please, tell me you didn't date that child!"

He turned red under the shaving cream. "No. I didn't date Carrie Underwood, you dunce. I dated a concert promoter's executive assistant for a while."

"But, Michael, those boxers say--" she pointed. "
So Small
." She burst out laughing. 

Michael turned redder. "It's a
song title.
They were a promotional item that didn't work, which is why she gave them to me," he said around clenched teeth. 

"I'm not surprised they didn't work," Cat drawled, still laughing. "I am surprised that you wear them."

Michael managed to look indignant and embarrassed at the same time. "Only when I haven't done laundry."

Cat splayed her palm over her tummy and bent over, trying to catch her breath.

Finally, Michael began to smile, then grin, then he was laughing with her. "Fine. Laugh at my underwear."

"Who in their right mind would put that on men's underwear?" she gasped. "Do you have more?"

Michael didn't answer.

"You
do
. What do they say?" She paused, thinking about Carrie Underwood songs. "'Cowboy Casanova?'" 

"No," he grated.

Cat raised her hands. "Fine. Kindly spare me the sight of them in the future, please."

"Don’t worry. They’re at the absolute bottom of the drawer."

"Interior decorator, concert promoter," Cat said, shaking her head in wonder. "I don’t suppose you know any apartment managers you could date, and get me an apartment I can afford?"

Michael glared at her. "Are you implying that I date women just to get stuff? I don't ask them to give me anything. I don't even know why they do. They just do."

"Well, lucky you. All I ever get is a diamond solitaire and a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach that it's only a matter of time before I'll be giving it back." In fact, her words started a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach right then. Suddenly, she was self-conscious, standing in her underwear staring at Michael in his underwear, even if his was funnier than hers. Probably sexier too.
Damn
. 

"Well, okay." She backed out of the bathroom doorway. "I'm going to make the coffee while you finish up, and tonight I'll put signs up. MEN and WOMEN. Or maybe BOXERS and BIKINIS."

She regretted her words as soon as she said them, because Michael's gaze flickered downward, toward her bikini panties. She felt his gaze burn the tops of her thighs.

"So--okay." She turned and ran.

Michael expelled his breath in a short, sharp laugh and shook his head. Cat.
His funny Cat
. She was as brash and bouncy and funny as she'd always been. He turned back to the mirror and caught the wistful smile on his face. Immediately, it turned into a frown. 

"Schmuck," he muttered, rinsing the razor, and quickly finished shaving. He splashed water on his face and absently glanced in the mirror again, following his normal routine. No stubble.

He picked up his shaving kit and the towel. He'd woken up this morning as usual, and stumbled into the bathroom without thinking. It was almost funny that he hadn't remembered Cat, sleeping in the other bedroom. After all, his muscles ached from wresting her bedroom set up the stairs yesterday.

But he'd worked at the office past midnight to prepare for today's case, and Cat had been closed up in his guest room by the time he'd gotten home. Then, this morning, in his drowsy morning haze, he'd followed his usual routine. And because he hadn't washed clothes in at least a month, he was down to the bottom of his underwear drawer. The only shorts left were a couple of Christmas ones his mom had given him several years ago and those cursed Carrie Underwood promo shorts. He glanced down and grimaced.
So Small
was emblazoned right across the very front of the boxers. He'd forgotten what songs were on them. A reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. Leave it to Cat to notice. 

Of course, he'd noticed her too. That tiny little top with the embroidered flowers, and those teeny weeny bikini panties.
Whoa
! He swallowed as he pulled on his suit pants. Suddenly, he had trouble zipping them. 

Okay. Deep breath. Think about those briefs waiting for you.
His brain interpreted briefs as something very unlike piles of computer-generated forms. Clenching his jaw, he recited the premise of the case he was working on until he regained control. 

He finished dressing and headed for the kitchen. The shower was running in the front bathroom, the shower he'd just stepped out of not thirty minutes ago. A vision of Cat, this time without any underwear, rose in his brain.
Stop it!
 

He reached for the coffee pot, only to find it full. She'd made the coffee.
Damn. He could get used to this.
 

After pouring himself a mugful, he blew on it as he walked over to the balcony doors and looked out, trying to ignore the sound of the shower, trying not to imagine where that water was splashing, running, dripping. He'd hoped, after all these years, that he was over Cat. It had been a challenge, to come back to Nashville and not let her know he was home. But he'd wanted to be absolutely sure he was over her. Then when Sara told him Cat’s latest fiancé had called off the engagement, he'd acted against his better judgment by going to check on her, he'd told himself. 

What had possessed him to invite her to share his apartment? It had seemed too big for him alone, but it was fast becoming way too small.

He wasn't over Cat. He would never be over Cat. He'd loved her from the first time he'd seen her. She'd been six years old, and he still remembered the look on her face, would remember it if he lived to be a hundred. It was her first day at his school, and she was frightened, angry, vulnerable, but her thin little shoulders were squared, her jaw was rigid, and her head was as high as she could hold it.

And Michael Grey was smitten by her courage, her determination, and her flashing green eyes. Now, more than twenty years later, he was still smitten, and Cat was still meeting the world with a chip on her shoulder as big as a log.

The bathroom door opened, and the scent of peaches wafted out. He took a long breath, then turned around, just in time to meet Cat's gaze as she appeared, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe with a towel wound around her hair. She stuck her tongue out at him and scurried off to her room.

He laughed. Some things never changed. Cat would always meet the world head on and dare it to ignore her, and he would always be there, waiting for her to stop long enough to notice him. He drained his coffee cup and grabbed his briefcase.

It was going to be hell, having her here, and not being able to touch her. But he'd had lifetime of practice at that, and things could always be worse. She could
not
be here. At least this way, he could keep an eye on her, make sure she didn't get into trouble, leading with her chin the way she did. 

And maybe, just maybe, he could one day convince her he wasn't just the same old Michael. Maybe he could sneak past that brave façade of hers long enough to show her he could be so much more, to show her he wouldn't die, like her beloved stepfather had, or fail her, like her mother had.

He set the mug in the sink and reached to turn off the coffee pot, then remembered she'd want coffee.

"Morning, lover boy." Cat was dressed in a short skirt and a long top. Her legs, encased in brown stockings, went on forever until they ended in clunky shoes.

"Morning. I was just leaving."

"Hold on a sec, Michael. Let me get some coffee."

"What is it? I've got a pile of briefs to get into before noon." As soon as he finished speaking, he winced. Sure enough, Cat picked up on the double entendre.

"A whole pile of them, eh? No wonder you weren't impressed with mine."

"Oh I was impressed," he muttered, then threw a quick "bye,"
over his shoulder as he reached the front door.

"Hold it!"

He stopped, inches from freedom. Letting his forehead rest against the half-open door, he sighed. "What?"

"We've got to get a few things straight."

"Can't this wait until tonight?"

"Well no. Actually, it can't. First of all--"

Michael groaned loudly. "There's a
first
of all?" He gave up and turned around, leaning back against the door until it slammed shut. 

"First of all, I can see why you don't shower in your bathroom. It's because you're using it as a ten by twelve foot laundry basket."

"Oh yeah. I'll get that stuff out of there."

"I'm surprised it hasn't walked out under its own steam by now."

"Also, there was a roach," she shuddered delicately, "in the sink, inside a dirty mug I might add, and the basket on the coffee pot was a quarter inch thick in coffee grunge."

"Yeah?"

"Michael, you have eight mugs and seven of them are in the sink."

"Six." He held up the mug in his hand.

"Oh please, don't tell me you got that out of the sink?"

He smiled at her horrified expression. "I wanted to leave the clean one for you."

She shook her head. "Those mugs may never be clean again."

"Sure they will. Why do you think they have that 'sterilize' button on the dishwasher."

"That's for baby bottles."

"And mugs. Gotta go. I'll see you tonight."

He escaped through the door before Cat could fire off a reply. He shook his head. It was sure going to be interesting, and different, to live with a woman. It was nothing for him to go a week without washing dishes, then stuff them all in the dishwasher at once and turn it to its hottest setting. Or go a month without doing laundry. He had just enough underwear and socks, including the faded promo boxers, to make it exactly twenty-seven days, if he didn't get caught in the rain.

Now, it looked like he was going to have to clean up his act. He smiled to himself as he started up the Porsche and pulled out of the parking lot. Maybe it was about time. If he wanted to impress Cat, living like a college kid was probably not the way to do it.

He made a mental note to pick up some dishwashing detergent and a bottle of wine on the way home.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cat looked up from working on the You Dot Com questionnaire to find Debra standing in the entrance of her cubicle, looking all flushed with excitement. "Well?" she said.

 Cat smiled. "You look like you just ran the hundred yard dash. What's up?"

"I couldn't wait to hear."

"Hear what?"

"How the living arrangements are turning out, of course."

"Debra, I've been there one day. The living arrangements are practically nonexistent, they're so new."

"Come on, Cat. You're killing me. I'm an old married woman. There's no excitement in my life. I have to live vicariously through you."

"Through me? Since when has
my
life been exciting?" 

"Since you moved in with that beautiful man."

Cat shook her head at her friend. "You are really around the bend. Listen. There is nothing between Michael and me. Not now. Not ever. You don't need my pathetic life to keep you enthralled. There's a blonde bombshell working in security, and Fiona the floozy over in accounting has a new man every week."

Debra nodded enthusiastically and sat in Cat's only guest chair. "So, tell me how the weekend went. What happened when you got up this morning."

Cat tried to scowl, but ended up laughing, as she remembered.

"What? Tell me or I'll strangle you."

"He had on Carrie Underwood boxer shorts."

"You saw him in boxers? I feel faint."

"You sound like a very naughty Jane Austen."

"Don't make me beg for every tidbit. Are his shoulders as broad as they look in a suit? Does he have six-pack abs? What about his legs? He's not one of those hairy men is he?"

Cat felt her face flame. "Debra! You sound like a sex-starved nymphomaniac or something."

"So tell me. Six pack? I'll bet he's cut, isn't he?"

"Yes, Debra, his abs are incredible. Now if you don't go back to work, I'm calling your husband and telling him he's not paying enough attention to you." She was intimately familiar with Michael's abs, after this morning. He'd always had the sleek, long muscles of a basketball player. She thought of the picture on his book case, and the sight of him in the bathroom. Why hadn't she ever noticed how good he looked with no shirt?

"Phil is paying plenty of attention to me," Debra cooed. "That's my entire point. You need someone to pay plenty of attention to you, and I'm voting for Michael. Oh, he is so fine."

"You've got to stop this. Michael is my friend. That's all. You're putting impure thoughts in my head about him. It's not natural."