She holds the pendant of her necklace in her fingers and absentmindedly runs it back and forth over the chain while staring into space.
“You’re always fiddling with that chain. Do you always wear the same necklace?”
She sighs and tilts the pendant in my direction. “It’s a St. Jude pendant. He’s the patron saint of lost causes.”
She turns away from me and continues playing with the chain, eyes trained to the telephones poles and passing cars.
“Oh, I don’t know, Tink. I think you bring hope to the hopeless every day. I’m thinking there isn’t a lost cause you can’t fix,” I say, poking her side with a laugh, but my cheerful mood doesn’t seem to transfer.
“That’s where you would be wrong … so very wrong,” she whispers.
I may be wrong about a lot of things, but I know one thing for certain: Celia Lemaire is not a lost cause, and I’ll do anything to prove it to her.
I climb Celia’s front porch steps two at a time, tape measure and counter samples in hand. I tap on the front door and whistle a happy tune under my breath. Am I overly excited about replacing the countertops in her kitchen? Yeah, I guess you could say that. Replacing countertops, being Celia’s shadow until she realizes how awesome I am—call it what you like, but however you look at it, I’ve got a serious job to do. If I happen to trip and my lips fall onto hers? Well, let’s just say, I wouldn’t exactly complain.
This is my MO—my strategy, if you will. Her porch needs sanding and repainting? I’m on it. The bathroom light flickers? Sounds like an extensive electrical rewiring is in order. At this rate, I’ll have a showroom-quality rental house on my hands. If things progress as I hope they will, maybe I could move out of my downtown apartment and reap the rewards of my labor with my hot ass, fairy girlfriend.
OK, so maybe I’m jumping the gun.
I hear her holler from the back of the house, inviting me in, so I open the door and proceed to the kitchen.
“Hey, Tink. Are you ready to pick out your new, fabulous countertops?” I call out when I don’t immediately see her.
My question is met with a loud ruckus, the slamming of doors, and a flustered Celia at the end of the hallway. She leans against the door handle, feet crossed and lips pressed together.
“Cain, you can’t just walk into my house whenever you please. What if I’d been naked?” she shrieks, way more upset than the situation calls for, if you ask me.
“I heard you tell me to come in,” I say as I place my things on the counter and cross my arms. She’s fully clothed, albeit a bit disheveled, so I fail to see the big deal.
“I didn’t say ‘come in;’ I said ‘coming,’” she huffs as she meets me in the kitchen. “There’s a difference, you know.”
I raise my hands defensively and bow my head. “My bad. I misunderstood, okay? Can we untwist the panties and move on to the fun stuff? Oh, wait, untwisting the panties could be a pretty good time, too, don’t you think?”
I nod slowly and shrug, and that finally coaxes a tiny giggle from her. Her eyes dart from me to the back of the house. I’m not sure why, but she seems more nervous than usual.
Something’s off.
“Is everything all right, Tink?” I ask, eyeing her suspiciously.
She nods nervously and smiles. I take a few steps toward the hallway, and she jumps in front of me and tugs my arm, pulling me back to the kitchen.
“Let’s take a look at the samples you brought. I’m so psyched about my countertops!” Her voice is pitchy and not at all fairy-like today.
I don’t like it one bit. What, or who, the fuck is back there? It can’t be…
A strange squeal comes from the back of the house, and Celia throws her arms up at the same time. “So psyched!” she screeches.
“What was that noise?”
“What noise?”
“You know the noise, Celia. The squeal from down the hallway.”
She taps my shoulder and pushes back toward the counter. “That was me, silly. I tend to get a bit screechy when I’m excited.”
I give her my best side-eye, but she just smiles and bats her eyelashes. I lay out the sample choices for her, and she runs her hand over each one.
“Right,” I say as I clear my throat. “So I have a few different things for you to choose from. You could choose a tile, if you want, or corian. We could also put in a butcher block countertop or granite, but we’d need go to the marble and granite shop to look at those choices.”
“Granite? Don’t you think that’s a little pricey for a rental house? I don’t want you to spend that kind of money…”
“Stop. Don’t worry about it for a second, because I’m not. I want you to have exactly what you want,” I say, deciding to omit the part about “So you won’t ever want to leave.” Yeah, I’ll keep that shit to myself.
Celia tips her head and smiles, just as I hear scratching coming from the end of the hallway. I turn in the direction of the noise just as Celia starts scratching and pawing at the tile samples.
“All of them,” she shouts as she tosses the sample boards around the counter with lots of clanking. “I love them all. I’ll never be able to choose.”
I put my hands on my hips and stay silent. I stare her down, waiting for her to meet my eyes. Once she stops her little fit, she clasps her hands and watches me through lowered lashes. I feel the adrenaline coursing through my body, making my heart pound and the veins in my temples throb.
Does she have a fucking guy back there? Is the volunteer from the speed dating fiasco paying her a visit? We’ve made no promises, and she owes me no explanations, but fuck that. Just the idea causes murderous thoughts to scroll through my head. She may not know it yet—it may take a bit longer for her to accept it—but she’s mine. End. Of. Story.
“Something you wanna tell me, Celia?” I ask evenly, trying to keep my boiling-over temper in check.
She wrings her hands and looks to the side. “I-I don’t know what you mean,” she whispers.
Unfortunately for her, right after she feigns innocence, a loud, unmistakable meow fills the house. I cock my head to the side as her eyes widen in an expression that can only be described as “Oh shit, I’m busted.”
She lets out a deep sigh and shrugs her shoulders. “Well, you see, I may have—”
I raise my hand to stop her. “Oh no, little one, it’s too late for that. The cat’s out of the bag. Pun intended,” I say as I stomp down the hallway and open the door to her bedroom.
I keep up the act, which isn’t hard to do because I’m less-than-pleased about a cat being in my rental, but my body exhales in relief. A cat won’t break my heart. A cat won’t steal my girl. That being said, it doesn’t mean the fur ball can stay.
A little orange nose peeks out from behind the door and sniffs my boot. Once I’m deemed fit, the kitten pounces on my foot and uses its razor sharp claws to climb its way up my jeans leg. I pluck it off my leg, but Celia swipes the kitten out of my hands before I can do anything else.
“Please don’t make me give Eddie back, Cain. Please.” Her shoulders hunch in defeat as she cradles the kitten in her arms. She shoots me the most persuasive pout I’ve ever seen in my life.
I have a strict no-pet policy. Animals scratch up doors and piss on baseboards. Those little fuckers will eat a hole straight through sheet rock. They are a pain in the ass I’ve never wanted to deal with. Celia’s just gonna have to understand that.
“It can’t stay,” I say, looking away. Her pitiful expression is the equivalent of a solar eclipse—if you look straight at it, you’ll be blinded for life.