William’s jaw drops and his plucking fingers freeze on his sleeve. Hurley leans forward, the front legs of his chair meeting the floor with a loud thump. I hear Dom mutter, “Whoa!” under his breath. Izzy doesn’t say a word, but it’s obvious from his expression that he’s amused.
William finally snaps his mouth closed, swallows hard, and says, “I’d love to.”
“Good.” I push my chair back and stand. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us. Izzy, I’ll see you in the morning. Is eleven-thirty okay?”
“That will be fine,” he says, his eyes twinkling.
Hurley opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water, but says nothing. I smile at him and then crook my arm at William. “Shall we?”
William almost trips over his own feet in his rush to get to me. He takes my arm in his and I can feel him trembling as he leads me out of the bar. I start to have second thoughts about what I’m doing, and pray I haven’t gotten myself into a situation I can’t get out of gracefully.
Chapter 9
When we reach the parking lot I ask William, “Do you mind giving me a ride home? I don’t have my car.”
“Of course.”
He is a perfect gentleman, opening the car door for me and making sure I put my seat belt on. I note that his car is a Toyota Prius and my estimation of him, and his financial status, jumps up a notch. I’m starting to think I didn’t give the guy a fair shake when he climbs behind the wheel and says, “There’s some mouthwash in the glove box. Can you get it out for me?”
I do so, then sit and watch, stunned, as he gargles and spits out his window. I half expect him to offer me a slug but realize that this sharing of germs is probably high on his list of phobias. Then I consider telling him I have a canker sore or some other infection, in hopes of warding off any attempts at a kiss.
My house is less than a mile away so it takes only a minute or two to get there. Along the way William glances at himself in the rearview mirror several times—taming his comb-over with a lick of spit, examining his teeth, and looking up his nose once, presumably for stray hairs.
He follows my directions and parks in front of my cottage. I climb out of the car quickly, not wanting to encourage the suitor scenario any more by waiting for him to open my door. Once we get inside he stops, looks around, and assumes an expression of obvious distaste.
“You’re a bit of a clutterbug, aren’t you?” he says.
“Sorry.” I take the envelope Hurley gave me out of my purse and toss it onto a nearby chair. “Neatness is not one of my strong suits.”
William looks like he is about to say something else but sneezes instead. Then he does it again. Three more follow in succession, like rapid-fire gunshots. “Do you have a cat?” he sniffles, taking out his hankie and dabbing at his nose. “I’m allergic to cats.”
Suddenly I see light at the end of the tunnel . . . a way out of all this without rejecting William outright. “I do. He’s a kitten, actually, about four months old, and his name is Rubbish because I found him in a garbage Dumpster.”
William glances around the room with an utterly horrified expression and I half expect him to bolt for the door.
“Don’t worry. He’s probably in hiding somewhere. He does that when I come home, like a game of hide-and-seek.” I gesture toward the couch. “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll get us some wine.”
He walks over to the couch and bends down to examine it carefully. When he starts brushing at the cushion, I head into the kitchen with my purse and grab the closest thing I have to wine-glasses: a couple of juice tumblers. As I hear William sneeze several more times, I dig in my purse, find a tube of lipstick, and put some on. Then I take both of the glasses and wrap my lips around their rims, one at a time. When I’m done, I examine the glasses carefully in the light and deem the lip prints satisfactory. Then I open a bottle of Chardonnay and fill both glasses.
I return to the living room to find William sitting on the couch, red-eyed, sniffling, and tearing. He sneezes twice more as I approach and they are violent enough that his comb-over springs loose, standing up on one side of his head like a lopsided rooster comb.
“You poor thing,” I tell him, handing him a glass of wine.
He takes the glass and true to form, holds it up for inspection. Despite the fact that his eyes are swollen halfway shut, he manages to widen them to startling proportions when he spies the lipstick mark. “Did you wash this glass?” he asks nasally.
I shrug. “I gave it a good rinse. Why? Is there a problem?”
He sets the glass down, blows his nose, and then sneezes again. I notice movement behind him and realize Rubbish has finally appeared, climbing up the back of the couch to perch just behind William’s head.
William leans back into the couch and dabs at his eyes and nose. He looks truly miserable and I feel a pang of pity for him. Then I notice that Rubbish has hunkered down, his furry little ass wiggling in the air, his pupils dilated like a meth addict’s. His eyes are focused on the flopping strands of William’s comb-over, and I realize with horror that he is about to make a kill.
William retrieves his glass as I start forward in hopes of grabbing Rubbish before he can attack but I’m a step too late. The kitten launches himself forward, all claws out, and lands on top of William’s head. William shrieks and pushes himself off the couch, managing to spill wine all over his shirt and knock over the coffee table in the process. Rubbish loses his grip, slides down the side of William’s head, and then scampers into my bedroom.
At least now I don’t have to worry about William trying to take me to bed.
“Jesus Christ!” William yells, holding a protective hand over his scratched face. He sets his now-empty wineglass down and takes out a second folded, cloth hankie from his pants pocket, which he uses to dab at the blood.
“I’m so sorry, William. Let me get something to clean up those scratches for you.” I grab a towel from the linen closet, and fetch some gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and antibiotic ointment from the medicine cabinet. As I return to the living room, I half expect to find William gone but to his credit he is still here, though he is standing much closer to the door. His eyes dart back and forth crazily and I’m not sure if he’s looking for Rubbish or planning a hasty escape.
His shirt front is soaked with wine so he unbuttons it and uses the towel to dry off his chest. In the meantime I dab at his wounds, clean them the best I can, and apply some ointment to each of the scratches. His comb-over is still standing at attention but there is something oddly endearing about it so I leave it alone. When I’m done, I stand back and tell him, “There you go. Good as new.”
“What if I get an infection?” he asks. “Cats are notoriously dirty animals, aren’t they?”
His questions remind me of someone else’s recent comments and an idea begins to bloom in my brain. “Their bites are prone to infection,” I admit, “but the scratches less so. I think you’ll be fine.”
He gives me a look that says he’s doubtful. Then his head rears back and shoots forward as he lets loose a rapid triple sneeze. Between the movement and the comb-over, he looks like one of those bobbing glass bird toys with the colored liquid inside.
“It doesn’t look like things are going to work out with us, William,” I say, trying to sound disappointed.
“Clearly not.” He blows his nose again.
“Would you be open to dating an older woman?”
He eyes me suspiciously. “Who did you have in mind?”
“My mother.”
He looks offended.
“She’s only a few years older than you and a very attractive woman,” I add quickly. “Plus she’s very, very clean.” It’s true. My mother is more of a neat freak and germophobe than William ever dreamed of being. She’s also single, several years out from her fourth divorce, lonely, and a cat hater.