Page 38 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

I bend to open the carrier, praying my dog and her cat don't start World War III in my living room. The black cat stalks out, looking around as if she owns the place. She sniffs the floor, walks up to Bob, studies him for a moment, then decides he's beneath her notice and wanders off to explore.

I should be worried about my furniture after seeing what that little monster did to Emily's apartment. Still, honestly, I don't give a shit. I can replace anything she destroys. Nothing in this place means anything to me anyway, which is pretty fucking sad when you think about it.

It reminds me of something my therapist said years ago before I stopped going. “Your reluctance to form attachments to objects mirrors your fear of forming attachments to people.” I blew her off then, but now I wonder if she had a point. My apartment is basically a fancy hotel room, functional but empty. Safe.

I shake it off. “This way,” I say, leading her to the guest rooms. I've got three bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a living room big enough to park a car in.

“Wow, this is amazing,” she says when we walk into the guest room.

I can't help but smile. She's so easily impressed. It's kind of sweet.

The room's done in neutral colors, beige, cream, and light blue, with some abstract painting over the bed. The decorator picked it out, along with everything else. It's supposed to be the ocean or some shit, but it's always looked like a storm.

“There's your own bathroom through there, and the closet's empty if you want to unpack.”

“Thank you, Logan.” She turns toward me and takes my hand. “Really, what you've done is—” Her voice breaks, and her eyes fill with tears.

She looks so fragile suddenly, so different from the spitfire she usually is. Something tightens in my chest. I want to pull her against me and tell her everything will be okay. The feeling scares the hell out of me.

“It's nothing,” I say quickly. “Make yourself comfortable. I'll be out there if you need anything.” I bolt before she can respond.

Back in the kitchen, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. This girl does something to me. When she's sad, I'm sad. When she smiles, I want to smile too.

I don't even recognize myself anymore.

I grab a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, pour a shot, and wander into the living room. Dropping onto the couch, I take a sip, trying to calm the fuck down.

It's been years since I lived with a woman. Valerie and I met in college. We were friends first, her, me, and my buddy Stephen. We were practically joined at the hip. Took me a year to get the balls to ask her out. After that first date, things moved fast, and six months later, she moved in. Everything was perfect, even though we were both career obsessed. Marriage and kids seemed like a distant maybe.

I can still hear her laugh. It was the first thing I noticed about her. She sat behind me in Biology 101, and when the professor made this lame-ass joke about mitochondria, most people groaned, but Valerie laughed. A real laugh, not that politelittle chuckle people give to unfunny professors. I turned around to see who could find that funny, and there she was, those green eyes sparkling.

Valerie knew all about my fucked-up family. The alcoholic dad, the mom who died when I was eight. I told her right away I didn't want kids, but she got pregnant anyway.

I roll the glass between my hands. Emily reminds me of her in some ways. She's tiny like Valerie was. Her hair's darker, though, and her eyes are this intense hazel color, while Valerie's were green. But they've got the same smile. That smile some girls have, the one that brings men to their knees. The kind you miss like hell when it's gone.

I down the rest of my drink and get up for another. As I grab the whiskey, debating whether to skip the glass and drink straight from the bottle, the door to the guest room opens. Emily changed into shorts and an oversized T-shirt. She's barefoot, her hair wet from the shower.

“Your shower's amazing. I could live in your bathroom!” she says, plopping onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.

I smile at her. “Want something to drink?”

She glances at the bottle in my hand and shrugs. “Sure, why not? I think I deserve one. I mean, I'm basically homeless, right?” She gives this laugh that doesn't reach her eyes.

“We'll figure something out.” I lay my hand over hers, and an electric shock runs up my arm.

“Looks like we generate sparks,” she jokes but quickly pulls her hand away, cheeks turning pink. I clear my throat and turn to grab another glass. When I look back, she's staring at her lap, hands folded.

“Here you go,” I say, filling the glass and sliding it to her. “Sorry, I don't have anything else.”

“This is fine.” She takes a sip and wrinkles her nose. She doesn't put it down, though.

I'm shit at small talk, and Emily seems focused on drowning her sorrows, so we just sip in silence. When I finish my second drink, I decide to call it a night.

“I should—” we say at the same time.

She stands up, and suddenly, we're pressed together. My eyes drop to her lips, and I wonder what they taste like. I could find out. All I have to do is lean in a little closer. My hands settle on her hips as if they have a mind of their own, fingers brushing against her T-shirt.

The scent of her shampoo, something sweet, fills my nose.

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