Almost Like Love(26)

Damn.

He took a step back and turned his head away for a moment, giving them both a chance to recover.

When he heard Kate clear her throat, he risked looking back at her. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were swollen.

“I just realized that Chris is gone,” she said shakily. “So . . . you know . . . mission accomplished. No need to keep on . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat again. “In short, well done. You did a good job there. Thank you.”

It was hard to sound calm and collected with an iron-hard erection straining against his jeans, but he did the best he could.

“No problem. Glad to help. That guy’s a dick, by the way. You deserve a lot better.”

“Thank you.” She paused. “But speaking of dickish behavior . . .”

“Right.” It was his turn to clear his throat. “I came here to apologize, as a matter of fact. But before I get to that, would you mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Of course. I mean, of course not. It’s down the hall on the right.”

He made his way there as casually as he could, even though it felt like his crotch was outlined in neon.

Once inside the bathroom with the door closed, he leaned over the sink and took a deep breath. Then he turned on the cold water and splashed his face.

Okay, that was better. The bulge in his jeans had subsided a little, and he no longer felt like a savage.

As he glanced around for a hand towel, he noticed that Kate had a nice bathroom. The walls were sage green, the crown molding and other trim done in a darker green. The rug on the floor was the color of sea foam. There were framed pictures on the wall, black-and-white drawings that looked vaguely familiar.

They were Edward Gorey’s, he realized after a moment. Charming and whimsical.

The room smelled nice, too. As he finished drying his hands and face and hung the towel back on its hook, he noticed a basket of potpourri and caught the scent of cinnamon and roses.

He left the bathroom and headed back into the living room. He’d barely noticed his surroundings before, but now he took the time to look around at Kate’s apartment.

It was a riot of color, but there was nothing discordant or strident. The walls were filled with paintings and photographs and prints, including one of a sword-wielding heroine captioned with the name Red Sonja. Not far from that bright splash of comic-book art, a beautiful quilt in shades of blue and lavender hung above the mantelpiece.

None of the furniture matched, but somehow it all went together. There was a lot of wood in different tones—cherry, mahogany, ebony—and the seating ranged from leather armchairs to antique rockers to an overstuffed sofa upholstered in pale peach fabric, with throw pillows in every shade of orange—pumpkin, apricot, tangerine.

It smelled good in here, too. Fresh and sweet. He didn’t notice any potpourri, but there were terra cotta pots filled with lush greenery and vases of flowers—roses, tulips, daffodils.

The hardwood floors glowed with the honeyed patina given by decades of care. There were books and bookcases everywhere, antique leather bindings side by side with comic books and thrillers. The lamps were as eclectic as everything else—ceramic, wood, and metal bases paired with every kind of shade, including Tiffany-style stained glass. There were wooden blinds on the windows instead of curtains, and the shafts of sunlight filtering through the slats made geometric patterns on the walls and floors.

All in all, it was one of the most appealing and inviting interior spaces he’d ever been in. He started to say so, but then he remembered her comment the night before about his “soulless palace of luxury” and a flicker of annoyance made him hold back the compliment.

Instead, he nodded towards the window seat, where a black-and-white feline was curled up, asleep. “Is that the cat you told Jacob about?”

Kate looked like she’d taken advantage of his short absence to compose herself. She’d redone her ponytail and straightened her clothing—black yoga pants and a gray thermal top—and her face, though still glowing, was no longer flushed.

She nodded. “Yes, that’s him.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Gallifrey.”

“Right. From Doctor Who.” Wanting to show that he wasn’t ignorant about shows on other networks, he went on. “I’ve been impressed by the way the BBC has driven its popularity in the US. Social media, home DVD sales, product tie-ins . . .”

He stopped when he saw the look on her face. “What?”

She shook her head. “Do you want to know why Doctor Who is so popular?”

“Go ahead and tell me, Miss Know-It-All,” he said, but there was no rancor in his voice.