It's In His Kiss

by Mallory Kane

  She tilted her head and squinted. "Oh, man! It's a picture of Carrie Underwood." She bit back a giggle. "Please, tell me you didn't date that child!"

  He turned red under the shaving cream. "No. I didn't date Carrie Underwood, you dunce. I dated a concert promoter's executive assistant for a while."

  "But, Michael, those boxers say--" she pointed. "So Small." She burst out laughing.

  Michael turned redder. "It's a song title. They were a promotional item that didn't work, which is why she gave them to me," he said around clenched teeth.

  "I'm not surprised they didn't work," Cat drawled, still laughing. "I am surprised that you wear them."

  Michael managed to look indignant and embarrassed at the same time. "Only when I haven't done laundry."

  Cat splayed her palm over her tummy and bent over, trying to catch her breath.

  Finally, Michael began to smile, then grin, then he was laughing with her. "Fine. Laugh at my underwear."

  "Who in their right mind would put that on men's underwear?" she gasped. "Do you have more?"

  Michael didn't answer.

  "You do. What do they say?" She paused, thinking about Carrie Underwood songs. "'Cowboy Casanova?'"

  "No," he grated.

  Cat raised her hands. "Fine. Kindly spare me the sight of them in the future, please."

  "Don’t worry. They’re at the absolute bottom of the drawer."

  "Interior decorator, concert promoter," Cat said, shaking her head in wonder. "I don’t suppose you know any apartment managers you could date, and get me an apartment I can afford?"

  Michael glared at her. "Are you implying that I date women just to get stuff? I don't ask them to give me anything. I don't even know why they do. They just do."

  "Well, lucky you. All I ever get is a diamond solitaire and a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach that it's only a matter of time before I'll be giving it back." In fact, her words started a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach right then. Suddenly, she was self-conscious, standing in her underwear staring at Michael in his underwear, even if his was funnier than hers. Probably sexier too. Damn.

  "Well, okay." She backed out of the bathroom doorway. "I'm going to make the coffee while you finish up, and tonight I'll put signs up. MEN and WOMEN. Or maybe BOXERS and BIKINIS."

  She regretted her words as soon as she said them, because Michael's gaze flickered downward, toward her bikini panties. She felt his gaze burn the tops of her thighs.

  "So--okay." She turned and ran.

  Michael expelled his breath in a short, sharp laugh and shook his head. Cat. His funny Cat. She was as brash and bouncy and funny as she'd always been. He turned back to the mirror and caught the wistful smile on his face. Immediately, it turned into a frown.

  "Schmuck," he muttered, rinsing the razor, and quickly finished shaving. He splashed water on his face and absently glanced in the mirror again, following his normal routine. No stubble.

  He picked up his shaving kit and the towel. He'd woken up this morning as usual, and stumbled into the bathroom without thinking. It was almost funny that he hadn't remembered Cat, sleeping in the other bedroom. After all, his muscles ached from wresting her bedroom set up the stairs yesterday.

  But he'd worked at the office past midnight to prepare for today's case, and Cat had been closed up in his guest room by the time he'd gotten home. Then, this morning, in his drowsy morning haze, he'd followed his usual routine. And because he hadn't washed clothes in at least a month, he was down to the bottom of his underwear drawer. The only shorts left were a couple of Christmas ones his mom had given him several years ago and those cursed Carrie Underwood promo shorts. He glanced down and grimaced. So Small was emblazoned right across the very front of the boxers. He'd forgotten what songs were on them. A reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. Leave it to Cat to notice.

  Of course, he'd noticed her too. That tiny little top with the embroidered flowers, and those teeny weeny bikini panties. Whoa! He swallowed as he pulled on his suit pants. Suddenly, he had trouble zipping them.

  Okay. Deep breath. Think about those briefs waiting for you. His brain interpreted briefs as something very unlike piles of computer-generated forms. Clenching his jaw, he recited the premise of the case he was working on until he regained control.

  He finished dressing and headed for the kitchen. The shower was running in the front bathroom, the shower he'd just stepped out of not thirty minutes ago. A vision of Cat, this time without any underwear, rose in his brain. Stop it!

  He reached for the coffee pot, only to find it full. She'd made the coffee. Damn. He could get used to this.

  After pouring himself a mugful, he blew on it as he walked over to the balcony doors and looked out, trying to ignore the sound of the shower, trying not to imagine where that water was splashing, running, dripping. He'd hoped, after all these years, that he was over Cat. It had been a challenge, to come back to Nashville and not let her know he was home. But he'd wanted to be absolutely sure he was over her. Then when Sara told him Cat’s latest fiancé had called off the engagement, he'd acted against his better judgment by going to check on her, he'd told himself.

  What had possessed him to invite her to share his apartment? It had seemed too big for him alone, but it was fast becoming way too small.

  He wasn't over Cat. He would never be over Cat. He'd loved her from the first time he'd seen her. She'd been six years old, and he still remembered the look on her face, would remember it if he lived to be a hundred. It was her first day at his school, and she was frightened, angry, vulnerable, but her thin little shoulders were squared, her jaw was rigid, and her head was as high as she could hold it.

  And Michael Grey was smitten by her courage, her determination, and her flashing green eyes. Now, more than twenty years later, he was still smitten, and Cat was still meeting the world with a chip on her shoulder as big as a log.

  The bathroom door opened, and the scent of peaches wafted out. He took a long breath, then turned around, just in time to meet Cat's gaze as she appeared, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe with a towel wound around her hair. She stuck her tongue out at him and scurried off to her room.

  He laughed. Some things never changed. Cat would always meet the world head on and dare it to ignore her, and he would always be there, waiting for her to stop long enough to notice him. He drained his coffee cup and grabbed his briefcase.

  It was going to be hell, having her here, and not being able to touch her. But he'd had lifetime of practice at that, and things could always be worse. She could not be here. At least this way, he could keep an eye on her, make sure she didn't get into trouble, leading with her chin the way she did.

  And maybe, just maybe, he could one day convince her he wasn't just the same old Michael. Maybe he could sneak past that brave façade of hers long enough to show her he could be so much more, to show her he wouldn't die, like her beloved stepfather had, or fail her, like her mother had.

  He set the mug in the sink and reached to turn off the coffee pot, then remembered she'd want coffee.

  "Morning, lover boy." Cat was dressed in a short skirt and a long top. Her legs, encased in brown stockings, went on forever until they ended in clunky shoes.

  "Morning. I was just leaving."

  "Hold on a sec, Michael. Let me get some coffee."

  "What is it? I've got a pile of briefs to get into before noon." As soon as he finished speaking, he winced. Sure enough, Cat picked up on the double entendre.

  "A whole pile of them, eh? No wonder you weren't impressed with mine."

  "Oh I was impressed," he muttered, then threw a quick "bye,"

  over his shoulder as he reached the front door.

  "Hold it!"

  He stopped, inches from freedom. Letting his forehead rest against the half-open door, he sighed. "What?"

  "We've got to get a few things straight."

  "Can't this wait until tonight?"

  "Well no. Actually, it can't. First of all--"
>
  Michael groaned loudly. "There's a first of all?" He gave up and turned around, leaning back against the door until it slammed shut.

  "First of all, I can see why you don't shower in your bathroom. It's because you're using it as a ten by twelve foot laundry basket."

  "Oh yeah. I'll get that stuff out of there."

  "I'm surprised it hasn't walked out under its own steam by now."

  "Also, there was a roach," she shuddered delicately, "in the sink, inside a dirty mug I might add, and the basket on the coffee pot was a quarter inch thick in coffee grunge."

  "Yeah?"

  "Michael, you have eight mugs and seven of them are in the sink."

  "Six." He held up the mug in his hand.

  "Oh please, don't tell me you got that out of the sink?"

  He smiled at her horrified expression. "I wanted to leave the clean one for you."

  She shook her head. "Those mugs may never be clean again."

  "Sure they will. Why do you think they have that 'sterilize' button on the dishwasher."

  "That's for baby bottles."

  "And mugs. Gotta go. I'll see you tonight."

  He escaped through the door before Cat could fire off a reply. He shook his head. It was sure going to be interesting, and different, to live with a woman. It was nothing for him to go a week without washing dishes, then stuff them all in the dishwasher at once and turn it to its hottest setting. Or go a month without doing laundry. He had just enough underwear and socks, including the faded promo boxers, to make it exactly twenty-seven days, if he didn't get caught in the rain.

  Now, it looked like he was going to have to clean up his act. He smiled to himself as he started up the Porsche and pulled out of the parking lot. Maybe it was about time. If he wanted to impress Cat, living like a college kid was probably not the way to do it.

  He made a mental note to pick up some dishwashing detergent and a bottle of wine on the way home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cat looked up from working on the You Dot Com questionnaire to find Debra standing in the entrance of her cubicle, looking all flushed with excitement. "Well?" she said.

  Cat smiled. "You look like you just ran the hundred yard dash. What's up?"

  "I couldn't wait to hear."

  "Hear what?"

  "How the living arrangements are turning out, of course."

  "Debra, I've been there one day. The living arrangements are practically nonexistent, they're so new."

  "Come on, Cat. You're killing me. I'm an old married woman. There's no excitement in my life. I have to live vicariously through you."

  "Through me? Since when has my life been exciting?"

  "Since you moved in with that beautiful man."

  Cat shook her head at her friend. "You are really around the bend. Listen. There is nothing between Michael and me. Not now. Not ever. You don't need my pathetic life to keep you enthralled. There's a blonde bombshell working in security, and Fiona the floozy over in accounting has a new man every week."

  Debra nodded enthusiastically and sat in Cat's only guest chair. "So, tell me how the weekend went. What happened when you got up this morning."

  Cat tried to scowl, but ended up laughing, as she remembered.

  "What? Tell me or I'll strangle you."

  "He had on Carrie Underwood boxer shorts."

  "You saw him in boxers? I feel faint."

  "You sound like a very naughty Jane Austen."

  "Don't make me beg for every tidbit. Are his shoulders as broad as they look in a suit? Does he have six-pack abs? What about his legs? He's not one of those hairy men is he?"

  Cat felt her face flame. "Debra! You sound like a sex-starved nymphomaniac or something."

  "So tell me. Six pack? I'll bet he's cut, isn't he?"

  "Yes, Debra, his abs are incredible. Now if you don't go back to work, I'm calling your husband and telling him he's not paying enough attention to you." She was intimately familiar with Michael's abs, after this morning. He'd always had the sleek, long muscles of a basketball player. She thought of the picture on his book case, and the sight of him in the bathroom. Why hadn't she ever noticed how good he looked with no shirt?

  "Phil is paying plenty of attention to me," Debra cooed. "That's my entire point. You need someone to pay plenty of attention to you, and I'm voting for Michael. Oh, he is so fine."

  "You've got to stop this. Michael is my friend. That's all. You're putting impure thoughts in my head about him. It's not natural."

  "Ah ha! I knew it. Now you're sounding like a romance novel. Impure thoughts. How can you even consider living with that gorgeous body and sustaining pure thoughts?"

  "I wasn't having a problem until you started all this.. Michael would be horrified. I'm horrified, at what you're suggesting. Does it not mean anything to you that we've known each other since we were eight years old?"

  Debra smiled a devilish smile. "It means you should know each other's faults. If you've remained friends for this long, you've obviously got all the major problems taken care of. Trust me when I say that sex is not the major part of a lasting relationship. In the long run, while I don't kick Phil out of bed for eating crackers, if he and I weren't good friends, he'd be long gone."

  "Thank you, Masters, or is it Johnson?"

  "Listen to me. You two have knocked the hardest part of making a marriage work. You're friends. You know the worst about each other and you still love each other."

  The worst about each other. Cat winced internally. "Get out of here."

  "No, I'm serious. You're the perfect couple."

  "No, I'm serious. Get out of my cubicle."

  Debra just crossed her arms.

  Cat threw her hands up. "I have not seen Michael in three years. He could have totally changed."

  "Has he changed?"

  Cat thought about it. Michael had always been carefree and fun. He’d dated the girls who’d pursued him with no motive other than enjoying them and showing them a good time. At the same time, he’d been kind, dancing with wallflowers at parties, making sure even the plainest girl danced at least once. And he’d always taken care of her.

  "I don't know," Cat sighed. "That's my point. I don't know. For instance, Michael borrowed his friend's truck yesterday, and got my bedroom suite moved in. Then he left to take the guy's truck back, and when I went to bed at eleven, he still wasn't home."

  "Well, you don't know. Maybe he and his buddy got drunk."

  "Ah ha! See, that's just it. I don't know. He could have been doing anything. He could have a girlfriend." Cat paused, horrified at her words. "Although he did say he wasn't seeing anyone."

  "Well then, that's perfect."

  "What's perfect?"

  Debra twirled her hair, twisting it into a bun, then untwisting it again. "You could be his girlfriend."

  "All right. That does it. Get out." Cat made shooing gestures with her hands, as if Debra was a cat. "Go on. Shoo!"

  Debra laughed. "Okay. But you think about Michael, and when you do, picture him kissing you, holding you, picking you up and carrying you into--"

  "Out!" Cat shouted.

  Debra ducked and disappeared.

  "Grrr!" Cat turned back to her computer. Kissing her, holding her, picking her up--"Argh!" She squeezed her head between her hands. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" After a few calming breaths, she looked back at the computer screen.

  * * *

  That evening, she got home around six. Michael wasn't there yet. She took a quick tour of the apartment, happy to have some time to check it out before he got home. His bedroom was surprisingly neat, for a bachelor. She wondered if he'd cleaned up just for her. His bed was made, after a fashion. She smiled. That meant he'd pulled the sheet up and straightened the pillows. She plumped them, then patted the closer pillow, which still had the imprint of his head in it. She picked it up, preparing to fluff it, then caught a whiff of Michael's unique scent of soap and Michael. She held the pillow to her nose and her eyes drifted shut. What a
great way to wake up, with her nose buried in his pillow, or his shoulder.

  "Mmm," she sighed.

  What? Her eyes flew open, and she stared at the pillow. What was she doing? She cleared her throat and tossed the pillow away from her as if she'd just discovered a spider sitting on it. Glancing around the room guiltily, she wiped her palms down her skirt.

  "Okay," she muttered. "Just checking out the place. Nothing weird."

  She turned on her heel and straightened her shoulders, eyeing the bathroom like a staff sergeant on inspection. Except for the Mount Everest-sized pile of laundry spilling out the bathroom door, there weren't any strange objects on the floor.

  His closet door was open, so she peeked inside. It was even neater than the bedroom, with several suits lined up on one side and a few shirts and pairs of slacks on the other. A bunch of empty hangars waited for the pile of laundry to be done.

  Cat counted his shoes, and marveled at the difference between men and women. She closed her eyes. What had he been wearing this morning? Besides the infamous boxer shorts, of course.

  Damn it Deb. Now you've got me thinking impure thoughts. She sternly admonished herself to keep her mind off Michael's boxers, or how his pillow smelled, or what great abs he had. Argh!

  Now, think. What was he wearing this morning? A dark blue suit with a bit of a stripe in it, a school tie, probably Brown University, his almer mater, a white shirt, and--she scrunched up her nose, thinking. Ah! Black loafers. Was it creepy that she could remember exactly what he had on, down to his shoes? She sincerely hoped not.

  She directed her attention back to his closet. He had, counting the black loafers and the running shoes in the middle of the floor, four pairs of shoes. On the other hand, she had more than four pairs of black shoes. She stifled a giggle as she closed his closet door.

  Men and women. Vive la difference!

  Back in the kitchen, Cat loaded the dishwasher and squeezed the very last drops of dishwashing gel into the dispenser, then rinsed the bottle with a bit of water to glean just a few drops more. With a grimace, she pressed sterilize.