Page 13 of Lane's Lost Kitten

I crossed over and sat on the bed beside him, kissing his cheek. “Morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Actually, I did. Once we got to sleep”—he winked—“that is. You?”

“Oh, very much so. I like sleeping with you,” I replied.

He kissed my cheek. “I’ll be right back.” Elio handed me the stick with the feather and took his own turn in the bathroom. When he returned, he took the stick back from me. “I want her to know I’m the cool one.”

“I’m confident she’s well aware,” I whisper shouted, as he continued to play with the cat for a few more minutes. “What do you have on your plate today? Can I make you breakfast?”

“I would love breakfast.” He set the stick down, giving me his undivided attention. “Today’s plans include fixing the front banister, adding new outlet covers in the laundry room, replacing lightbulbs in the staircase, and, for added excitement, replacing the windowsill in the vacant apartment. It’s got a big crack.”

“Oh, you do have a full day,” I said, getting up and throwing on some sweats. No one wants a naked cook. “Do you need any help?”

“I can handle it,” he replied, his tone playful. “Though, I wouldn’t mind having an assistant, or a boss, if you know how to do the windowsill.”

“I’m more than happy to do your bidding.” I loved the idea of working side by side with Elio. Although, if he had mentioned any other activity for the day, I’d have been thrilled to do those as well. I wanted to spend time with him. Full. Stop.

“I’ve never done the windowsill before. I’m going straight by whatever the YouTube videos suggest,” he teased.

“I’m the perfect assistant. I can pull up YouTube videos like a boss.”

“Deal.”

That settled, I went to work on getting breakfast ready as Elio made the coffee and set the table. I whipped us up some French toast and bacon. It was an easy meal but one I rarely took the time to make during the week. Who needs a dirty pan and plate when you can have toast on a paper napkin?

He loved my French toast and, when breakfast was over, Elio went back to his place to clean up and get dressed while I did the same here. It wasn’t hard to say goodbye to him, knowing that I’d be at his place shortly. Had he been going to a day job or on an overnight family trip, I’d have been clingy, asking him to stay.

I really didn’t know a lot about handyman stuff, but I figured I’d be able to follow directions well enough to hand him the right tools when he asked for them and keep him company.

Forty-five minutes later, I knocked on his door, and he called for me to come in. When I did, he was in the bedroom, the door shut.

“Did you want me to come back later?”

“No,” he called back, “I left the door unlocked for you. I wanted you to be able to just come in. Help yourself to anything. There’s some coffee brewing in the kitchen.”

“My coffee wasn’t good enough, I see,” I sassed. He drank it all though. Fair to say, my French toast was a hit.

“Oh, it was plenty good enough. There just wasn’t enough of it. Today is going to be a many-cups-of-coffee day.” I went into the kitchen to pour myself a mug and one for him. I’d watched how he fixed his when he was at my place, and it felt nice to be able to do this for him.

Partway through pouring it, I stopped, realizing that if I had been pushing for him to be “Daddy,” if I was still focused on needing to have both parts of my relationships met by the same person, I’d have been upset that I was making this coffee.

It was ridiculous on so many levels. I was embarrassed for me. In this scenario, it just made sense that I was the one preparing the coffees. Since I was the one out here, I was the one needing to pour. Maybe this just-dating thing wouldn’t work.

I went to grab the creamer from the fridge and noticed my drawing was on there. I just stopped and stared. He hadn’t just said thank-you because he was being polite. He liked it, valued it enough to put it on his fridge. And maybe that was the little side of me who loved to see things on the fridge—important things, pictures, and photographs, and such—that it just hit me in a good way.

“You okay?” He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. I leaned back into him.

“You saved it,” I said, as if he didn’t already know.

“Of course I did. You made it for me.”

I turned in his arms. “You don’t think it’s weird that it was a little kid-like though?”

He kissed my forehead. “It was little-kid-like, and I loved it.”

I slammed my lips to his, wanting to show him how much all of that meant, without having to formulate the words. There was no way I wouldn’t get too emotional if I thought about it any longer, and maybe it was okay if I did, but we had things to accomplish, including replacing a windowsill, which I had sort of thought was connected to the entire window. So, it was going to be an adventure that was for real.

Being his assistant turned out to be the funnest way to spend a Saturday. Who would have thought it? We fixed little things here, a big thing there, chatted about my work, my old work, the city, the place we went to eat. Chattering on about anything and everything.

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