Page 39 of The Sharpest Edges

“I can still fix it,” he adds, not wanting her to think this whole thing was a failure. “Just need a new oil pan.”

He looks defeated and embarrassed like he expected to be her knight in shining armor and fix this stupid thing, only to end up looking like one of those oil-soaked baby ducks in a dish soap commercial.

She contains her laughter, just barely, but she manages.

“Go on and laugh,” he deadpans.

She bites her lip. “I would never.”

Mischief lights up his face as he opens his arms in an attempt to hug her.

“No. Do not!” She laughs, backing away to avoid a slippery embrace.

“You sure?” He beams.

“Never been more sure of anything.”

He backs off with a chuckle, trying to wipe his hands on his pants in a pointless move.

“How about we get you cleaned up first and then worry about this later? Looks like a job for another day.”

Dean frowns, shifting on the balls of his feet. All that rare, playful teasing she was so happy to see amoment ago slipping away. “Didn’t bring nothing else to change into. I should go home and shower.”

He doesn’t want to leave yet, and she makes a split-second decision that she hopes she won’t regret later. “I have an old shirt that might fit you and my hot water works. You can use my shower.”

He looks like he might protest, maybe say something about how he doesn’t want to track gunk into her house, but she waves him off and starts toward the door. “Come on, the longer you leave it in your hair, the harder it’ll be to get out.”

She hands him a towel and an entire bottle of dish soap once they reach the bathroom.

“You want me to wash my hair with this?” He pouts with an oil-covered frown.

“Yes. Twice. If it’s good enough for baby birds, then I think you’ll survive. I’ll find you a shirt and leave it on the doorknob before you come out.”

When she gently shoves him inside the bathroom and shuts the door, she tries not to think about how he’ll be naked in her house only a few minutes from now.

* * *

Her cat sits next to the coffee maker, watching her put a pod inside and hit the button like it’s the most fascinating thing, little ears swiveling and head tilting.

“What do you think about all this?” she asks the cat, who gives no response other than a bored expression. “I should go for the wine instead, right?”

When the water in the bathroom shuts off and Dean appearsa few moments later, she nearly drops her cup and barely saves the spoon in her other hand from clattering to the counter.

He is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, still glistening from the shower, biceps flexing as he towels off damp hair. Even the fact that he’s wearing one of John’s t-shirts that she’d forgotten to donate to Goodwill doesn’t take away from how handsome he is.

“Looks like it worked.” Her voice catches in her throat. “The dish soap.”

He nods, one corner of his mouth lifting in a shy smile, but then his attention drifts to the cat on her counter. “Hey, Buddy. Heard a lot about you.”

“All terrible things,” she teases, watching the animal nuzzle against his hand and knead tiny biscuits onto the hard kitchen countertop. “He likes you.”

“Me and him, we go way back. You name him yet?”

Ava hands him a steaming hot coffee cup with a frown. “Not yet. Looks like a Spot, or a Moo. Something cow-related? I don’t know. I’ll call him Cat forever.”

It’s been nicer to have this little black and white kitten here than she thought it would be. He is always a willing ear and an eager audience, happy to curl up against her side every night like a warm, comforting little weight.

She’s not delusional enough to ignore the real reason why she hasn’t named him. It has nothing to do with not knowing each other well enough and everything to do with how afraid she is of getting too attached. With her luck, she’ll name this cat, let him into her heart and he’ll die the next day from some obscure cat flu.

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