Page 9 of Faking the Heat

There’s nothing left to say, so I eat. Bowie comes back, plants himself on my lap, and starts purring at a volume designed to remind everyone present that he is the main character.

Sterling leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching the cat with an expression that could almost pass for affection if you didn’t know him. “He’s not so bad,” he concedes.

“Don’t let him hear you,” I say, scratching behind Bowie’s ear. “He’ll get a big head.”

Sterling grins, then, finally, looks at me directly. His gaze flicks to the shirt, the boxers, then to my bare knees. I brace myself for a quip, but he just goes slightly pink in the cheeks and focuses very hard on unboxing the litter tray.

I am equal parts relieved and disappointed.

I feel something clench and release in my chest. I am going to have to be very, very careful for the next two weeks. I am already in more trouble than I can admit.

But for now, I am fed, caffeinated, and not on fire.

That counts as a win.

Chapter four

The Red Pen Amendment

Sterling

My kitchen is not designed for this level of threat. I’m standing at the island, slicing packaging and boxes with a chef’s knife that could bisect a brick, but my primary weapon is denial. Denial that Mandy is ten feet behind me, wearing my T-shirt and my boxers and nothing else. Denial that the shirt hits her mid-thigh like a sleepover fantasy. Denial that my body is, as of this morning, mutinying against all rational definitions of friendship.

The solution is simple, I do not turn around. I focus on the litter box. The litter box is fine. I am fine. Nothing is different.

I bend to line the litter box up against the wall and realize too late that my hands are shaking. I breathe through my nose and recalibrate, centering myself on the tile grid of the floor. One square per exhale. This is a house of order. Like the firehouse. I can handle some fabric and exposed knees.

Behind me I can sense her leaning on the opposite side of the island, watching me. Not because she’s a creep, but because this is how she operates, take in the scene, gather data, assemble the appropriate level of sarcasm for deployment. I have to fight not to look back at her.

I stand and turn around. She’s perched on a stool, knees drawn up, bare legs tangled under the hem of the t-shirt, and I have to forcibly route my gaze to her face and nowhere else.

“All set furball,” I announce, as if this is a public event and not a war of attrition between my brain and my hormones.

She grins, which is worse than her ignoring me entirely. “Is this one of your ‘signature moves’?” she asks. “Impressing women with breakfast and baked goods?”

“Technically,” I say, “only two percent of women survive to the breakfast stage. You should be honored.”

She props her chin in her hand, elbow to the counter. “How many are you up to now, Captain Save a Hoe, was it?”

“I’d have to check the records. But you’re the first to get the bakery upgrade.” I wink and place the other bakery bag in front of her and try not to notice the way her hair is still damp from the shower, or how the steam off the sandwich fogs her glasses for a split second before she slides them up the bridge of her nose.

Bowie is already orbiting, winding between the stool legs, tail flicking at the hem of the shirt like it’s the world’s smallest flag. Mandy hold out a small crumb of egg towards my furred nemesis. The cat goes for it, misses by a mile, and then leaps up onto the counter with the entitled grace of someone who knows the rules do not apply to him.

I shoot Mandy a look. She shrugs, innocent. “He’s food, motivated,” she says. “He gets it from his roommate.”

I could argue. I do not. Instead, I reach behind me, grab the spiral notebook with the cracked blue cover from the coffee table, and drop it onto the island between our plates. The impact makes her jump, which is a win.

“New house policy,” I say, uncapping a pen with unnecessary force. “We are setting ground rules.”

Her eyes light up, but she tries to suppress the smile by biting down on her lower lip. “This feels ominous. How many rules are we talking?”

“Depends on how quickly we can agree to them.” I print the first one at the top of the page in block letters:

NO JUDGING CEREAL CHOICES.

She cackles. “I don’t like anything with little marshmallows.”

“That’s not my problem,” I say. “Rule two.” I write: