He leaned back against the cushions and crossed his arms over his chest. “I can’t picture you as ever having been geeky,” he said
“You’ll just have to use your imagination,” I told him, pulling the comic books a little closer.
“I can do that,” he said.
I ducked my head over the open box. I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear exactly what he might be imagining.
I spent maybe another five or ten minutes exclaiming over the stack of comics, holding up issues and giving Marcus a summary of their story lines. Then he poured us each another cup of coffee, and we went out onto the deck in the fading light. He sat in a slat-back wooden chair and propped his feet up on the railing while I took the swing, kicking off my shoes so I could curl my feet underneath me.
“This is so beautiful,” I said, looking out over the backyard, rimmed with trees. The leaves were already turning, and even in the half-light of dusk I could still see colors from amber to scarlet. “How long have you been here?”
“Three years this winter,” he said. “I liked the place the moment I saw it.” He sank a little lower in his chair. “You know, it’s kind of because of Desmond that I’m here.”
“Roma’s Desmond?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
Desmond was another Wisteria Hill cat. Marcus had found the cat, injured, by the side of the road and taken him to Roma’s clinic. She’d ended up having to treat both of them. Desmond wasn’t exactly social.
Curious, Roma had done a little exploring at the old estate and found the feral cat colony. Marcus had been her first volunteer, although I wasn’t sure if he’d actually volunteered or if he’d been conscripted. Oddly, the cat seemed to like the clinic, so Roma had kept him. Desmond was long and lean with sleek black fur and there was something just a little intimidating about his presence. He was missing one eye and half an ear, which only made him seem more imposing.
I made a hurry-up motion with one hand. “Tell me,” I said.
“There isn’t that much to tell,” he said, setting his mug up on the railing. “I found Desmond. I took him to the clinic, and that’s when I met Roma for the first time. I knew she’d taken over the practice when Joe Ross retired. A couple of days later, I went back to see how Desmond was doing and we started talking. She told me that Joe had bought a sailboat and was planning to sail around the world so he was selling his house. I drove past on my way home and made him an offer in the morning.”
He reached over and patted one of the railing’s wooden spindles. “Most of the work has been outside so far. The yard was kind of overgrown. The end wall of the garage had a tilt that had to be fixed. And I built the deck.”
“You built this?”
He nodded. “With a lot of help from Harry Taylor.” He laughed. “Don’t worry. Harry put the swing together, so you’re safe.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I said, folding my hands around my cup. He could cook. He could build things. He smelled good. I took a sip of my coffee. I needed to think about something else.
“So what’s next?” I asked to distract myself from thinking about how great Marcus smelled.
“The attic,” he said at once. “There are boxes up there from whoever owned the house before Joe bought it. I have no idea what’s in them or who they might belong to.”
“A mystery,” I said. “I like those.”
“I’ve noticed that,” he said with a laugh.
We talked about his plans for the house for a while. I set my mug down on the wide deck boards and rubbed my left arm.
“Your wrist hurts,” Marcus said, dropping his feet and straightening up in the chair.
“A little bit,” I said. “I think we’re going to get some rain.” I’d broken my left wrist just over a year ago, and since then I’d become pretty good at predicting the weather based on how it felt.
I stretched and slid my feet back into my shoes. “I should get going. Owen could have Fred the Funky Chicken parts all over the kitchen by now.”
Marcus got the box of comic books and carried it out to the truck for me. “Thank you for those,” I said, tipping my head toward the carton on the passenger seat. “And for dinner. Will you come and have dinner with me—and the fur balls? Maybe next week?”
“I’d like that,” he said. “I’ll check my schedule and let you know.”
He smiled, and I thought about standing on my tiptoes, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him down for a kiss. While I was thinking about it—and having a little internal debate with myself—he leaned down and kissed me.
His mouth was warm, his lips were soft and for a second—which was about how long the kiss lasted—I forgot how to breathe. Aside from kissing my dad on the cheek and Ethan on the top of his head—mostly because it bugged the heck out of him—I hadn’t kissed a man since Andrew. Andrew whom I’d thought I’d marry until we had a fight and he went on a two-week fishing trip and came back married to someone else.
I’d forgotten how much I liked kissing.
Marcus trailed one hand along my shoulder and then he took a step backward. “Good night, Kathleen,” he said.
“Good night, Marcus,” I said.
I got in the truck, started it and concentrated on backing slowly and carefully out of the driveway. Marcus raised a hand, and I did the same as I drove away. I didn’t think at all about backing him up against the door of the truck and kissing him until he was the one who couldn’t breathe.
No, I didn’t.
Hercules and Owen were sitting by the back door when I stepped into the kitchen, almost as though they’d been waiting for me to come home.
“Hello. How was your evening?” I said.
They exchanged glances and then looked at me, cocking their heads to the left at the same time, like the movement had been choreographed. They trailed me as I hung up my jacket and carried the box of comic books into the living room. I sat down in the big chair and set the comics on the footstool.
Herc narrowed his green eyes and studied the cardboard carton. I patted my lap. “Come up,” I said. “You know you want to.” He jumped up onto my lap and stepped carefully onto the end of the footstool. Then he stood on his back legs so he could poke his nose inside the box.
“Batman,” I said.
The furry black-and-white face surfaced, and it looked like he was frowning. “No,” I said. “Batman, not bat like the one who chased you across the backyard.” He made a small sound and his head disappeared back under the cardboard flap.
Owen had run out of patience by then. He didn’t wait for an invitation. He launched himself onto my lap, then leaned over and gave the carton a poke with one paw. Hercules meowed his annoyance, his head still inside.
“Stop that,” I said sternly to Owen.
He gave a snippy meow of his own; then he turned around, settled himself and stared at me.
“What do you want?” I asked. “A full rundown of my evening?”
“Rroww,” he rumbled.
“You’re worse than Maggie,” I said, running my fingers through my hair. “Okay, Marcus made stir-fried chicken with noodles. It was very good.”