“She was malnourished, dehydrated and favoring her back right paw, but no breaks or tears, so the vet figured it was bruised. It took me a bit to talk him into letting me keep her. He was concerned I’d done that to her. I managed to convince him she’d be safe with me. So Cleo got the realm where she’d reign and I learned that, even if your cat views you as her subject, it’s seriously nice to share space with another living being who depends on you.”

Okay.

He just said that.

He just said that.

“That’s sweet,” I whispered my understatement.

“Maybe. Mostly it’s true.”

I had no reply.

In fact, I didn’t want to talk anymore.

I wanted a very belated hello kiss.

This must have communicated itself to Axl because he got even closer.

So much closer, I could feel his body, even if it wasn’t touching mine.

And he had to bend his neck even more to hold my eyes.

“So, you like my mattress?” he murmured.

“It’s like heaven,” I said to his mouth.

“Hybrid,” he replied.

“Mm?” I hummed.

“Memory foam and regular.”

I was sure what he was saying was fascinating.

But I was fascinated with something else.

I’d never really noticed how magnificent lips were when they moved.

Especially lips like Axl’s.

“Hattie?”

“Yes?”

“Do you wanna kiss me?”

“Yes.”

“Then, baby, kiss me.”

“Okay,” I breathed, pushed up on my toes and kissed him.

No hesitation, his arms closed around me, he angled his head and he kissed me back.

Axl ended it with me pressed to the sink, my arms around his shoulders, his tall, hard body molded to mine.

Man, he was a great kisser.

And when he finished kissing me, and I swam out of how that made me feel, one could say I instantly became a disciple of that hot, hungry look on his face.

“The Pac-Man machine is my favorite part of your house,” I whispered.

“Did you play?”

“Your deck beckoned.”

His lips quirked. “Right. Another time.”

I hoped so.

“I’m ordering monogrammed notepads this afternoon,” I informed him.

His lips quirked again. “Birthday present from Mom a couple of years ago. I think that’s the first note I wrote on one of them. Usually it’s grocery lists.”

“Did she buy you the bowl on your dining room table?”

“Yeah.”

“She has good taste.”

“Yeah.”

“The piece in the picture window?”

“That’s mine.”

Nice.

“Your middle name starts with an ‘S,’” I told him something he knew.

“Sylas, after my dad.”

“Ah.”

“Yours?”

“Marianne, after no one.”

He smiled.

Then, unfortunately, he said, “As much as I’m all in to chat all day with you in my arms pressed to my sink, honey, I gotta get back to it.”

He said this low, without hiding his disappointment.

I didn’t hide mine either.

“Bummer,” I muttered.