Page 36 of The Perfect Snipe

I snort.

She flops down next to me on the couch, close enough that I can smell her shampoo—

something floral and citrusy. “Seriously, Leo. You look like someone pissed in your Cheerios.”

I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the way my body keeps reacting to her proximity. “Everything okay with Rosa?”

Cat groans, throwing her head back against the couch. The long line of her throat is exposed, and my jaw tightens as I fight the urge to taste her skin. My fingers twitch, longing to trace the curve of her neck. I swallow hard, forcing myself to focus on her words instead of the tantalizing sight before me.

“My grandmother is impossible. You know she chased out another health aide? I swear, she's going to go through the entire agency at this rate.”

“What about assisted living?”

The glare she shoots me could melt ice. “What do you think? She's more stubborn than a mule with its hooves superglued to the ground.”

I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

“Don't start, Leo.”

I hold up my hands, palms out, in surrender. “Not looking to fight. But my offer still stands. Maybe she'd be more receptive to moving in here.”

Cat snorts, shaking her head. “Yeah, right. Because what this house really needs is another stubborn Alonso woman.”

“Wouldn't be the worst thing.” Then again, with the way my daughter winked at Rosa during the recital, maybe it’s a bad idea.

“You sure about that?”

“No.”

If Wyatt were here, he’d kick me. Hell, I want to kick myself. I can’t even explain why I just gave such a short—yet honest—answer.

“You okay?” She looks at me, really looks at me, and I have to fight the urge to squirm under her gaze. Her eyes are searching,probing, like she's trying to peel back my layers and see what's underneath. “Want to talk about it?”

I grunt, looking away, my fingers digging into the couch cushions.

Part of me wants to open up, to let some of this weight off my chest. The pressure of the season, the constant fear of failure, the gnawing loneliness that's become my constant companion—it's all threatening to spill out.

But it's the other half I can't tell her. That my mind is still replaying our night together, wondering if she's thinking about it too. That every time I close my eyes, I see her face, feel her touch. I'm surprised Wyatt hasn't said anything.

Has she even told Nora? The thought makes me uneasy. But then again, if she hasn't . . . does that mean it wasn't memorable for her?

Fuck, when did I turn into such a teenager? Worrying about my “performance” like some kid who just lost his V-card. I don't do this shit.

But with Cat . . . everything's different. And that scares the shit out of me.

Cat's eyes narrow. “And you call me stubborn.”

“I’m not the one who refuses help to the point they cut their foot open and bleed.”

She growls, like literally growls, and I can feel my dick leak because of it.

“You know you’re not my boss right? That this thing is all an even exchange. Not that I mind helping out. But for fuck’s sake, don’t think I have to actually listen to you.”

“No?”

“No.” She reaches over, poking me in the chest. “And you can’t do anything about it. You know what, I think that motherfucking step stool is going in the garbage tomorrow.”

In one swift move, I use one hand to swipe the pillow off my lap and grab her wrist with the other, pulling her across my lap so that her perfect ass is in the air. “You are such a pain in the ass, you know that?”

---