Page 56 of Napkins and Other Distractions
“Okay, I’ll sneak out in the morning. I won’t disturb you.”
In bed with Vincent, with our shirts off, facing each other, our breathing the only sound in the room, my heart trots before taking off at a full gallop.
“Would it be okay if I … ”
“C’mere,” Vincent says, grabbing my hand, rolling over, and wrapping me around his smooth body.
“Good night, Mr. Lester.”
“Good night, Mr. Manda.” I inhale the orange and honey aroma on his skin, pull him close, and let the warmth of our bodies quiet my mind. With Vincent so near, so sweet, so beautiful, how am I supposed to not fall for this man?
CHAPTER 19
Vincent
“This is Sweetums.”
Kent holds a creature that appears to be an overfed cat on growth hormones. Featuring an orange coat, long wild fur, pointy ears, and paws like baseball mitts, he’s the biggest feline I’ve seen in my life. Not that I’ve been searching. Does Kent know it’s illegal to keep wild animals as pets?
“Holy mother of god,” I say, gulping down a breath, “what the hell is that?”
“Sweetums. My cat.” Kent attempts to cradle the giant beast like an infant, and to my surprise, it lets him. He bends down and kisses the top of its head, covered in wispy whiskers that must be half a foot long.
“He’s a Maine coon.” Kent rubs under the monster’s chin, which seems to cast a spell on it. The cat’s eyes close, and it begins purring. The sound expands until it fills Kent’s rather cluttered apartment.
When Kent began getting dressed just after five this morning, it was clear to me that I needed to drive him home. Sleeping in isn’t something my brain understands, and on weekends, I’m typically up by six, anyway. I planned to drop him off, get a workout and shower, do an abbreviated scrubbing of surfaces, and spend my afternoon working on LEGO Paris. But after our night together, when Kent invited me up to meet his “baby,” declining felt rude.
“They’re larger than most domesticated cats,” Kent says, once again holding the cat up under its arms for my inspection. “Adult males usually weigh around eighteen pounds, but Sweetums is closer to twenty-five. He’s got a little extra love on him. Like his daddy.”
The cat climbs over his shoulder, and its hind legs poke at Kent’s soft stomach. He really has the perfect dad bod. Fluffy, furry, and perfect for cuddling.
“Anyway, let me feed him,” Kent says. “He’s starving, right, Sweetums?”
The cat makes a noise, something between a meow and a guttural growl.
My eyes survey his space while Kent takes care of the ravenous feline, and—much like Kent—the word disorderly comes to mind. There’s so much … stuff, and it’s everywhere. The built-in bookshelves are tightly packed with an assortment of books, small decorative items, and cherished family photos. Over by the large bay windows, there’s a cat tree, easily over six feet tall, overflowing with more cat toys than a small animal shelter requires. Sweetums is clearly one spoiled feline.
I search for a place to sit. The sofa is completely covered. Blankets. Pillows. Magazines. A tattered sweatshirt. A random selection of remotes, coasters, and books surrounds a hopefully empty pizza box on the coffee table. There’s not a vacant spot to be found.
“There we go,” Kent says, drying his hands on a paper towel. “He’s all set for at least five minutes. That’s how long he takes to inhale a can of cat food. Sit,” he says, and then notices the state of his sofa, seemingly for the first time. “Oh gosh, look at this mess.”
He begins folding blankets, plumping pillows, and stacking magazines on the coffee table.
“It’s fine, Kent. I really shouldn’t stay.” My skin itches in such disorder, and the unhygienic cat, only a few feet away, doesn’t help.
“Why not? There. Sit.” He points to a cushion he’s managed to clear.
The sofa, a deep navy fabric, has a few patches on the arms, probably from monster feline scratches. Doing my best to take up as little space as possible, I nod and sit. With my hands resting in my lap, I try to avoid unnecessary fidgeting.
Kent joins me, pushing more clutter aside, pulling his feet up, and grabbing a blanket to cover his lap. “Where’s my good boy?”
I’m tempted to crawl over and let him pet me, but alas, he’s summoning the cat.
Sprinting over, Sweetums bounds into Kent’s lap and immediately flops over, presenting his stomach.
“This is our little ritual. He eats and then gets massive belly rubs.” As promised, Kent massages the fur, kneading until, once again, the cat’s purr roars like an engine.
“How did he get so, so … ”
