I grinned and continued up the stairs. “Yes, Simon?” I called up.
“You’re home late.”
“What, are you watching my door now?” I laughed, rounding the last landing and staring up at him. He was hanging over the railing, hair in his face.
“Yep. I’m here for the bread. Zucchini me, woman!”
“You’re insane. You know this, right?” I climbed the last stair and stood in front of him.
“I’ve been told. You smell nice,” he said, leaning in.
“Did you just sniff me?” I asked incredulously as I opened the door.
“Mmm-hmm, very nice. Just get back from a workout?” he asked, walking in behind me and closing the door.
“Yoga, why?”
“You smell great when you’re all worked up,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me like the devil.
“Seriously, you pick women up with lines like that?” I turned away from him to take off my jacket and squeeze my thighs together maniacally.
“It’s not a line. You do smell great,” I heard him say, and I closed my eyes to block out the Simon Voodoo currently making Lower Caroline curl in on herself.
Clive came bounding out of the bedroom when he heard my voice and stopped short when he saw Simon. Unfortunately, he had little traction on the hardwood floor and skidded rather ungracefully under the dining room table. Trying to regain his dignity, he executed a difficult four-foot leap from a standing position onto the bookshelf and waved me over with his paw. He wanted me to come to him—typical male.
I dropped my gym bag and sauntered over. “Hi, sweet boy. How was your day? Hmm? Did you play? Did you get a good nap? Hmm?” I scratched behind his ear, and he purred loudly. He gave me his dreamy cat eyes and then turned his gaze to Simon. I swear he cat-smirked at him.
“Zucchini bread, huh? You want some more, I take it?” I asked, throwing my jacket on the back of a chair.
“I know you have more. Simon says gimme it,” he deadpanned, making his finger into a gun.
“You’re oddly into your baked goods, aren’t you? Support group for that?” I asked, walking into the kitchen to locate the last loaf. I might have been saving it for him.
“Yes, I’m in BA. Bakers Anonymous. We meet over at the bakery on Pine,” he replied, sitting down on the stool at the kitchen counter.
“Good group?”
“Pretty good. There’s a better one over on Market, but I can’t go to that one anymore,” he said sadly, shaking his head.
“Get kicked out?” I asked, leaning on the counter in front of him.
“I did, actually,” he said, and then curled his finger to get me to lean in closer.
“I got in trouble for fondling buns,” he whispered.
I giggled and gave his cheek a light pinch. “Fondling buns,” I snorted as he pushed my hand away.
“Just fork over the bread, see, and no one gets hurt,” he warned.
I waved my hands in surrender and grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard over his head. I raised my eyebrow at him, and he nodded.
I handed him a bottle of Merlot and the opener, then grabbed a bunch of grapes from the colander in the fridge. He poured, we clinked, and without another word, I started making us dinner.
The rest of the evening happened naturally, without me even realizing it. One minute we were discussing the new wine glasses I’d purchased from Williams Sonoma, and thirty minutes later we were sitting at the dining room table with pasta in front of us. I was still wearing my workout clothes, and Simon was in jeans and a T-shirt and his stocking feet. He’d taken off his Stanford sweatshirt before draining the pasta, something I didn’t even have to ask him to do. He’d simply wandered into the kitchen behind me, and had it drained and back in the pot just as I finished the sauce.
We’d talked about the city, his work, my work, and the upcoming trip to Tahoe, and now we headed over to the couch with coffee.
I leaned back against the pillows with my legs curled underneath me. Simon was telling me about a trip he’d taken to Vietnam a few years before.
“It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen—the mountain villages, the gorgeous beaches, the food! Oh, Caroline, the food.” He sighed, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. I smiled and tried not to notice the butterflies when he said my name that way: with the word Oh right in front of it…
Oh me, oh my.
“Sounds wonderful, but I hate Vietnamese food. Can’t stand it. Can I bring peanut butter?”
“I know this guy—makes the best noodles ever, right on a houseboat in the middle of Ha Long Bay. One slurp and you’ll throw your peanut butter right over the side.”
“God, I wish I could travel like you do. Do you ever get sick of it?” I asked.
“Hmmm, yes and no. It’s always great to come home. I love San Francisco. But if I’m home too long I get the itch to get back out on the road.
And no comments about the itch—I’m starting to get to know your mind there, Nightie Girl.” He patted my arm affectionately.
I tried to feign offense, but the truth was I had been about to make a joke. I noticed he still had his hand on my arm, absentmindedly tracing tiny circles with his fingertips. Had it really been so long since I’d let a man touch me that fingertip circles sent me into a mental tizzy? Or was it that this man was doing it? Oh, God, the fingertips. Either way, it was doing things to me. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine O waving at me—still far away, but not as far as she’d been before.
I glanced at Simon and saw that he was watching his hand, as if curious about his fingers on my skin. I breathed in quickly, and my intake of breath drew his eyes to mine. We watched each other. Lower Caroline was, of course, responding, but now Heart began to beat a little wildly as well.
Then Clive jumped up on the back of the couch, put his bum right in Simon’s face, and killed that real quick. We both laughed, and Simon moved away from me as I explained to Clive that it was not polite to do that to company. Clive seemed oddly pleased with himself, though, so I knew he was up to something.
“Wow, it’s almost ten! I’ve taken up your entire evening. I hope you didn’t have plans,” Simon said, standing and stretching. As he stretched, his T-shirt came up, and I bit down hard on my tongue to stop myself from licking the bit of skin showing above his jeans.
“Well, I did have a rather exciting night of watching Food Network planned, so damn you, Simon!” I shook my fist in his face as I stood up next to him.
“And you even made me dinner, which was great, by the way,” he said, searching for his sweatshirt.
“No problem. It was nice to cook for someone other than myself. It’s what I do for any guy who shows up demanding bread.” I finally handed him the loaf I’d left out for him.
He grinned as he grabbed his sweatshirt off the floor next to the couch. “Well, next time, let me cook for you. I make a fantastic—huh, that’s weird,” he interrupted himself, grimacing.
“What’s weird?” I asked, watching as he unfolded his sweatshirt.
“This feels damp. Actually, it’s more than damp, it’s…wet?” he asked, looking at me, confused. I looked from the sweatshirt to Clive, who sat innocently on the back of the couch.
“Oh no,” I whispered, the blood draining from my face. “Clive, you little shit!” I glared at him.
He jumped off the couch and darted quickly between my legs, headed for the bedroom. He’d learned I couldn’t reach him behind the dresser, and that’s where he hid when he’d done a bad, bad thing. He hadn’t done this in a long time.
“Simon, you might want to leave that here. I’ll wash it, dry clean it—whatever. I am so, so sorry,” I apologized, horrifically embarrassed.
“Oh, did he? Oh man, he did, didn’t he?” His face wrinkled as I took the sweatshirt from him.
“Yes, yes, he did. I’m so sorry, Simon. He has this thing about marking his territory. When any guy leaves clothes on the floor—oh, God—he eventually pees on them. I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I’m so—”