Page 63 of Forget Me

“The shelter said black cats don’t always get adopted. So I did.”

“Oh.” Of course he had. Mateo’s protection extended to orphaned animals, too.

“Your allergies!” Mateo’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t even think—I’ll run to the drugstore for your medicine. Or I can put him in the garage?”

“No.” I sucked in an experimental breath and let it out. “I’m okay so far. I have some pills in my purse. We’ll see how it goes, okay?”

“Okay. But if you start to feel sick—”

“I’ll let you know. I promise.” I stroked one of Roger’s big bat ears, and he closed his eyes and purred.

Mateo lifted Roger until he looked the kitten in the eye. “Listen, I know you missed me, but there’s no reason to behave like that.” He turned so they faced the toilet paper disaster. “I’ll always come back for you. Understand?”

Roger lolled his head toward Mateo’s hand. Mateo scratched him under the chin. “Okay.”

Meanwhile, I was about to melt into a puddle right here on the gray rug in the entryway. “Want me to clean that up while you feed him or whatever?”

“No. You sit.” He led me to an armless gray chair that faced the kitchen island. “I have wine—red and white—rum, and whiskey. What would you like?”

“White wine, please.” The last thing I needed to do was spill red wine on Cooper Fallon’s furniture.

Mateo set Roger on the rug, then balled up the toilet paper. He poured me a generous glass of white wine from a small wine refrigerator set into the island before he poured himself a glass of rum with a couple of ice cubes. He checked the refrigerator.

“Chicken and rice okay?”

“Sure.”

When he tugged off his sweater, his white T-shirt rode up, giving me a flash of the defined muscles at his waist before he smoothed down his shirt. The plain crew-neck hugged his body, displaying biceps, triceps, and the muscles on his back I didn’t know the name of but that shaped him like a funnel right down to his narrow waist.

I took a cooling gulp of wine and fanned myself.

He hefted an instant pressure cooker out of a lower cabinet onto the counter. He winked at me. “My tía would have a heart attack if she saw this monstrosity, but I love it.”

“What’s so special about it?” Bree raved about the air fryer she’d gotten as an engagement gift, but because I had to googlehow to boil an eggevery time, I didn’t deserve specialized appliances.

He plugged in the cooker, added a splash of oil, and started chopping some onions and peppers on the counter. His forearms took center stage, and I ogled them, fascinated by the taut muscles and tendons.

Without looking up, he said, “Why is the instant cooker special? It’s efficient. Fast.”

“That’s the way you like it? Fast?” I snapped my jaw shut. Where had those words come from?

He paused his knife and grinned at me over his shoulder. “Sometimes. Though I like to savor my meals.” His gaze raked over me. “Linger at the table.”

“Linger.” He watched as I crossed my legs the other way and pressed them together to ease the tingling at my core.

“A feast can take hours.” His voice was a low purr.

“Hours,” I sighed.

“Would you like a taste? An amuse-bouche?”

“A—a what?” A drop of sweat started between my breasts and trailed down my stomach.

“One…bite. A promise of what’s to come?”

Comesounded pretty good. Was it possible to climax from verbal foreplay? If anyone could manage it, Mateo could. “I do enjoy a well-placed bite.”

He set down the knife and picked up a dish towel to wipe his hands. Those massive hands I wanted on me.

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