Page 8 of The Love Bandits

My mouth drops open, because I’m taken aback. I didn’t expect him to have a sensitive side, but maybe he’s just throwing out a lure to pull me in for that drink he requested.

Then something furry brushes against my legs. The only furry things to have ever unexpectedly brushed against my legs in New York City were rodents the size of domesticated pets, so I scream. And practically leap at Jake, who reflexively wraps his arm around me, pinning me to his hard, hot chest.

“What is it?” he asks, his tone urgent, his breath at my ear, and even though my nerves are still as raw as if someone took a cheese grater to them, I feel a hot shiver run through my body. I lean in closer—for protection, obviously, and also so we present a larger target.

“A rat,” I say, my voice breathy. “It brushed against my leg.”

Even as I report this gruesome fact, there’s another brush of fur against my bare leg. I yelp again, but this time I look down—and see a black cat rubbing against my leg.

Huh.

My brain takes two seconds to absorb a few facts. Fact One: the cat’s wearing a filthy red collar with no tag. Fact Two: the cat looks like he hasn’t had a good meal in at least two weeks. He’s either a stray or on one hell of a walkabout. Fact Three: the cat meets the description I gave earlier, and he’s acting like I’m made of catnip. If I claim he’s not mine, Jake will be suspicious. But if I claim he is, he might assume I’m a jerk who doesn’t feed her cat…or suggest that I bring him home before coming over for that drink he promised me. I’d have nowhere to bring him butback out here, and if he’s really a stray, he might need some help, and—

Jake has released me and is looking down at the cat expectantly, and I know I need to do something…

“Professor X,” I croon, getting down on my haunches to pet the cat. “Mommy didn’t realize it was you.” In my peripheral vision, I can see Jake making a face, and I almost laugh. I’ve been overdoing it, but I feel the perverse urge to dial it up rather than down—to toy with Jake to see how he reacts. “Oh thank goodness, my widdle mister, Mommy was so worried this time, but you always come back to me, my baby boy, don’t you, my darling?”

The look on Jake’s face…

He’s not even bothering to hide his reaction now. He’s watching me and the cat with horrified fascination.

I try to hold it together, but I can’t help it, I burst out laughing, and the cat leaps up onto my bent legs. He’s small, but the maneuver catches me off-guard, so I land on my ass on the smelly pavement near the trash dumpster, laughing, the cat clutched in my arms. The absurdity only makes me laugh harder.

I used to be good at this kind of stuff, but I’m not anymore. I’mgladI’m not. But it’s inconvenient at this particular moment.

Jake looks surprised, understandably, then he reaches for the cat and says, “Let me help you up, Catwoman,” followed by a smirky smile that’s hard to look away from, damn him.

I hand him the black cat presently known as Professor X, and he cradles him to his hard chest, holding out his other hand to me. I let him pull me up, trying not to feel too grateful for the assist—or to notice that he has nice, strong hands. Capable hands.

He’s an asshole. A liar and a thief. He’s only helping you because he wants something.

The something he wants is me—and I can’t deny that thought is a little…exciting, even if I have no intention of giving myself to him.

I bolster myself against his smile, against the moment of shared humor. You can get along with anyone for twenty seconds. It doesn’t mean they’re a person worth knowing.

“You had me going for a minute, you know,” he says, handing Professor X back to me gently, his hand brushing my arm. Another hot shiver has the nerve to work its way through me, especially when Jake meets my gaze, his eyes still full of mirth. I pointedly look away.

The cat surprises me by nuzzling his furry little head under my chin. I’m surprised by the heat building behind my eyes, the warm emotion drowning my chest. It’s just…

I never had any pets growing up, but I’d always wanted one. Someone to take care of. Someone who’d love me no matter what and demand nothing in return. That was the precise reason my parents had said pets were a waste—you give and give and give and they couldn’t ever return on the investment.

Because love didn’t have any value on its own.

Coughing the emotion out of my throat, I say, “I’m very fond of my cat.”

“Clearly.”

“I color coordinate my outfits to his collars.”

For a second, he looks uncertain again, like he can’t tell whether he’s in the presence of a psychopath or a person with a twisted sense of humor, and then a sparkle lights up his pretty eyes. “No, you don’t. You’re fucking with me.”

“So why’s he wearing a red collar?” I ask.

“Coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

That’s true, mostly. Except…

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