Page 44 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

I frown, cross my arms over my chest, and give him a challenging look. “Really? That beast just destroyed my apartment and got me kicked out. She attacks me every time she sees me and uses my clothes to sharpen her claws. I no longer have a roof over my head or clothes to wear, and nine times out of ten, I have to choose between feeding her or feeding myself. What exactly do you find amusing about any of that?”

My voice cracks at the last words, betraying my genuine stress. Being homeless isn’t a joke. Neither is having your life turned upside down by a demonic feline that seems to have a personal vendetta against you.

The amusement fades from Logan’s face, replaced by genuine contrition. “Okay, calm down.” He rests his hands on my shoulders. The warmth of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of my blouse, steadying me. “Demon’s just a cat. She doesn’t hate you, nor is she trying to make your life a living hell.”

“Easy for you to say. You haven’t had to live with her for two weeks,” I splutter, refusing to meet his eyes.

He takes my chin between his fingers and forces me to look at him. I swallow, and suddenly, my nervousness is replaced by a new sensation.

I run my tongue over my lower lip. Logan follows the movement, and his breathing becomes faster and more irregular. Our mouths are at that ideal distance again. A shiver runs up my spine, and I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ease the throbbing pain between them.

His eyes darken as they lock with mine. I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and masculine and the scentthat’s uniquely his beneath it. His thumb traces my jawline, featherlight, making my skin tingle. The bathroom is suddenly too small, too warm. Time seems to stretch and slow. I’m aware of my heart hammering against my ribs, the sound of our breathing, the infinitesimal decrease in distance between us.

If he doesn’t kiss me within five seconds, I’m going for it.

Five. Four. Three. Two.

“I’m going to fix myself a drink. Care to join me?”

Come on. Seriously?

I shrug and sigh, trying to keep myself from rolling my eyes. “Sure. Let me just get out of my work clothes and put something more comfortable on.”

He gives me a brief nod and leaves the room. No sooner has he closed the door behind him than I give a small yell of exasperation. Logan Price is the most nerve-racking man I’ve ever met. Not Hollywood material at all.

I want to sink into the bathtub and scream underwater. Twice now, he’s gotten me all worked up and walked away. It’s like he’s toying with me, getting close enough to make me think something will happen, then pulling back just when I’m ready to throw caution to the wind.

I yank off my work clothes and pull on a pair of yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt that readsI’m Not Arguing, I’m Just Explaining Why I’m Right.My college roommate gave it to me after a heated debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. It doesn’t, for the record. Some hills are worth dying on.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and sigh. My hair is coming loose from its ponytail, my face is flushed, and there’s a small smudge of mascara under my right eye. Not the seductive vixen I was hoping to portray. But then again, my attempts at seduction aren’t working anyway, so what’s the point?

Squaring my shoulders, I march to the kitchen. We’re roommates who work together. Nothing more, nothing less.

Even if my body screams otherwise.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Logan

While I wait for Emily in the kitchen, I pour myself a whiskey. The minute the first sip touches my taste buds, I begin to relax.

I know I need to stay away from the sassy little brunette who’s now my roommate, but I can’t do it. It’s not just my cock that wants her so badly. Every fiber of my body is attracted to her. My fingers twitch whenever a lock of her hair falls into her face. My tongue craves to take possession of her mouth. My hands are dying to cup her small breasts. My eyes want to admire every inch of her body.

But the most terrifying thing is how my heart pounds every time she’s around.

I take another deep swallow of whiskey, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. The amber liquid glints in the low light of my kitchen, reminding me uncomfortably of my father and his ever-present bottle. I force the thought away. I’m nothing like him. I drink to relax, not to escape. There’s a difference.

Isn’t there?

I give my head a shake. After Val, I swore I would never even look at someone as young as Emily. I drew up strict rules for myself, and I’ve never broken them. Until Emily.

It was a year after Valerie’s death before I could even look at another woman. My therapist called itprolonged griefas if there’s some standard timetable for mourning. As if one day you wake up and decide,Okay, I’m done being sad now.Truth is, you’ll forever miss the ones you lost.

When I finally did start dating again, I chose women who were nothing like Val. Older, career-focused, sophisticated. Women who wanted the same things I did: companionship without commitment, pleasure without promises. It worked. It was safe.

I can hear her footsteps behind me, but I don’t dare turn around. If I come face to face with her right now, I won’t be able to restrain myself.

“Can I have one?” Her delicate voice sounds in my ear like a sweet melody. She’s so close to me, I can smell her scent. I breathe it in deeply and close my eyes.

---