Page 21 of Revv

“Don’t look so relieved,” I tell him. “You’re still not the man of the house. You don’t pay bills.”

He bumps his head against my chin, probably because he loves me, but more likely because breakfast has not magically appeared yet.

“Fine,” I mutter, pushing myself up. “We get up. We eat. We work. We do not think about Revel St. Clair’s mouth.”

Guacamole meows.

I point at him. “Exactly. Growth.”

I regret saying that thirty minutes later when I’m standing in my kitchen wearing an oversized shirt, one sock, and Revel’s stupid hoodie. Well, not wearing it, holding it.

To smell it.

For scientific reasons, obviously.

“Don’t,” I warn Guacamole, who is sitting on the counter like he pays rent. “I know what this looks like.”

He stares at me.

“It’s laundry analysis.”

He licks his paw.

“Exactly. Thank you.”

Except it smells like him.

Clean laundry, leather, night air, and that faint bite of gasoline that should not be attractive, but apparently my standards packed up and moved out sometime between getting on his bike and letting him put his tongue in my mouth.

I toss the hoodie into the laundry basket like distance will fix whatever it’s doing to my head.

Then I immediately take it back out.

“Nope,” I say, pointing at it. “I’m returning this. That’s all. We are not becoming sentimental over stolen fabric.”

Guacamole meows.

“Borrowed fabric,” I correct. “Don’t make me sound like a criminal.”

He hops down from the counter with all the grace of a raw rotisserie chicken and trots toward his food bowl, tail high, clearly done with my emotional crisis now that it no longer involves him.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Breakfast.”

The second I open his food, he starts yelling like I’ve been starving him for years instead of six hours.

“Ay, Dios mío, calm down,” I tell him, scooping his food into the bowl while he screams at my feet. “You are so dramatic. Mira, look. Food. You survived another tragedy.”

Guacamole is bald, wrinkly, and built like a tiny old man who knows everyone’s secrets, but he’s my baby, so of course I let him act like I personally betrayed him by not serving breakfast fast enough.

I set the bowl down, and he dives in like he just came home from war.

“You’re welcome, mi amor,” I tell him. “Ungrateful little demon.”

He dives in like the bowl owes him money.

Cute, but ungrateful. Typical male.

I make coffee, but it’s trash because I’m out of the good stuff.