But what about the kids? I tensed at the thought. I’d made a promise to Dorman, and damn it, I would stick to it. I would find a cure for this damn disease and lock in the loyalty of Dorman’s followers. I would do it, damn it.

Garth touched my chin, and I flinched away from him. He lowered his hand back to the cat. “You’ve been staying on the streets, haven’t you?”

I stared down at the glass of whiskey. “Not exactly.”

“Kat . . .” Garth set his own glass down softly, barely making a sound on the stone countertop. “You can stay here.”

I stared at him, stunned by the offer. Slowly, I shook my head.

“It’s fine, really.” His strong features were set, his jaw tensed, his coffee-brown eyes hard, determined. “Stay here. Nobody would think to look for you here.”

“But I’m wanted. And people already know that you know me.” I was still shaking my head. “Henderson . . . all the cops who saw me in the waiting room . . .” I’d visited him back when he was in the hospital, recovering from his injuries. Was it really only a week ago? So much had changed since then. I inhaled and exhaled slowly, then picked up my glass and took a sip.

“I may have told them I made a pass at you,” Garth said, meeting my gaze for the briefest moment before refocusing on Eva the cat. “And that you rejected me.”

I was in the process of swallowing and choked on the whiskey.

“They dropped the subject because, well, what kind of a guy can’t even get a pity date while he’s laid up in the hospital?”

I finished off the glass and reached for the bottle of Jameson. “Trust me, Garth, you don’t need pity to get a date.” I uncorked the bottle, filled up my glass, and held the bottle out to him, fake smile plastered on my face. “Refill?”

He drained his glass, then set it down, knocking it closer to me with a couple taps of his fingernails. “At least they think you want nothing to do with me. Nobody’ll look for you here.” He turned away and headed through a doorway, hitting the light switch on the wall as he went. The light in his bedroom flared to life.

The furnishings within were fairly Spartan and very masculine, all in black, white, and gray, the only touch of color his navy blue comforter. His furniture was on the plain side, the black dresser and nightstands more simple than modern, and his bed didn’t have a headboard. There were two other doors on the rightmost wall, the nearest shut—a closet, I figured—the other open, revealing a bathroom vanity and mirror. In the reflection, I could see a heavenly looking shower, a great big slate-tiled masterpiece with two showerheads, a removable one on the wall and a wide, rain shower one hanging down from the ceiling.

I only noticed I was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, likely drooling, when Garth started shutting the door. “I’m going to change, then you can shower and get cleaned up while I cook.”