Page 15 of Pickled
The kitten bounded past us to the edge of the garden. “He likes to chase the geckos.” The sides of Gideon’s lips turned up as he watched the cat dive into the bougainvillea.
“That’s unlikely. There were three other kittens dumped by the front gate. The guard found them when he came into work. Your little guy just ventured further into Rosewood Estates than the others.”
“What happened to the other ones?” Gideon’s eyes were glued to the rustling in the bushes as the kitten continued its gecko hunt.
“Randall, the guard, is a softie. He took them home and is going to keep them if no one claims them.”
“Does he want one more?” Gideon shouted as he disappeared into the house, returning with a bottle of wine. The cat bounded past us, then circled back into the bush.
“Can you imagine having three of these in your house?” I laughed.
“God no.” Gideon shook his head. “Randall must wear shin pads.” He rubbed his square jawline. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I could wear them to bed. He likes to attack my feet while I sleep.”
“Ha.” I pointed at Gideon. “Didn’t we have a bet about that?”
“About what?” His lips turned up. He knew exactly what I was talking about.
“The kitten. On your bed…”
“Shit.” Gideon looked at the table. “We did. What do I owe you?”
I laughed. “I think this dinner should cover it.”
Gideon flicked open the corkscrew with a flourish. “Then we are definitely drinking this bottle of wine.”
I should’ve resisted, but I didn’t.
A solar light flickered on the table as the sun set behind the palm trees. “Please, have a seat.” He pulled out the patio chair like a seasoned maître d’. I slid onto the thick cushion, and Gideon draped a cloth napkin over my bare legs. If I’d known I’d be sitting down to a fancy dinner, I would’ve changed out of my running skort.
“To your new cat.” I held up my wineglass.
Gideon gave a reluctant smile. “To my new cat.”
We tapped our glasses together, the ting of expensive crystal ringing in the night air. I sipped the wine and smiled. “It’s very nice.”
Gideon picked up the bottle and studied the label. “I got it as a gift. I think it’s good stuff. I’m not really a sommelier.”
“I’m not either. I’ve had some crazy expensive wine that tasted like balsamic vinegar.” I swirled the wine and sniffed it. “This has hints of chocolate and cigar.” It was an expensive bottle of wine; the Lockelhursts had the same bottle in the “very special” section of their wine cellar.
“Chocolate and cigar?” Gideon sniffed the wine and took another sip. “You know, that sounds disgusting, but I can totally taste it. Are you sure you’re not a connoisseur?”
I chuckled. “I’m not, but I’ve got some friends who are really into wine. Did you know that cat pee is a tasting note?”
He blinked and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “I was not aware of that. That must mean it’s gone bad.”
“No, it’s actually a good quality. Speaking of…” I gesture to the rustling bush with my wineglass. “How’s he doing with his litter box?”
Gideon’s chest puffed. “Good. He hasn’t had any accidents at all. That’s why I’m shocked that someone just dumped him. If I ever find out who did that…” His voice trailed off. “They could’ve taken them to a barn or to a shelter. Those kittens didn’t stand a chance next to all the canals here. You never know what’s lurking in there.”
I shivered. There had always been alligators, but lately, there had been sightings of some pretty big snakes too. The palm trees rustled, and a gust of wind left ripples on the swimming pool. I relaxed and took a bite of the steak. It was cooked perfectly. The potato steamed as I unwrapped the foil. “So, you’re going to keep him?”
Gideon took a bite of his steak and sipped his wine, taking his time to respond. The kitten launched out of the bush, bounded across the patio, and jumped onto Gideon’s lap. “Well, I’ve named him, so that means I have to keep him, right?”
Heat bloomed across my chest. On the outside, Gideon Bailey was huge, scruffy, and gruff. I’d done a little bit of internet sleuthing, and the online consensus seemed to be that he was an asshole. The journalists painted Gideon as stoic, cold, and one-dimensional. A hockey machine. The man who sat across the table from me was all of those physical things. His forearms were roped with muscle, and his biceps stretched the sleeves of his T-shirt. His jawbone was sharp but softened with a seemingly permanent five-o’clock shadow. But underneath the Grecian godexterior, the man was not too hard. He read cozy mysteries and named stray cats. What other surprises lay underneath that perfect body of his?
“That’s definitely a rule. If you name something, it means you’re keeping it. So, what’s the little guy’s name?” I reached over the corner of the table to scratch the kitten’s head.
A hint of red crept along that jawbone. Was Gideon blushing? “It’s not that creative.”
