Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “Hi there.” I take a few steps, cautiously holding out my hand. The cat glowers harder. “Aren’t you a nice little kitten?”

            “He isn’t.” Erik is taking off his shoes and hanging his jacket behind me. “Nice, that is.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Cat.”

            “Cat? Like . . . ?”

            “Cat,” he says, final. I decide not to press him.

            “I’m not sure why, but I pegged you for more of a dog person.”

            “I am.”

            I turn and give him a puzzled look. “But you have a cat?”

            “My brother does.”

            “Which one?” He has four. All younger. And it’s clear from the way he talks about them, often and with that half-gruff, half-amused tone, that they’re thick as thieves. My only-child, “Have this coloring book while Mommy and Daddy watch The West Wing” self burns with envy.

            “Anders. The youngest. He graduated college and is now . . . somewhere. Wales, I believe. Discovering himself.” Erik comes to stand next to me. He and Cat glare at each other. “While I temporarily watch his cat.”

            “What’s temporarily?”

            He presses his lips together. “So far, one year and seven months.” I try to keep a straight face, I really do, but I end up smiling into my hand, and Erik’s eyes narrow at me. “The beginning of our . . . relationship was rough, but we are slowly starting to come to an agreement,” he says, just as Cat jumps off the table and pauses to hiss at Erik on his way to the kitchen. Erik snaps back with something that sounds very harsh and consonant based, then looks at me again. “Slowly.”

            “Very slowly.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Do you lock your bedroom door at night?”

            “Religiously.”

            “Good.”

            I smile, he doesn’t, and we slip into a lull of not-quite-comfortable silence. I fill it by looking around and pretending that I’m fascinated with the map of Copenhagen that hangs on the wall. Erik does it by standing next to me and asking, “Would you like something to drink? I think I have beer. And . . .” A pause. “Milk, probably.”

            I laugh softly. “Two percent?”

            “Whole. And chocolate,” he admits, a little bashful. Which has me chuckling some more, Erik finally smiling, and then . . . more silence.

            We’re idling between the entrance and the living room, facing each other, him studying me, me studying him studying me, and something heavy knots in my throat. I’m not sure what’s going on. I’m not sure what I expected, but the entire night was so easy, and this is not. “Did I . . . Did I misunderstand?”

            He doesn’t pretend not to know exactly what I mean. “You didn’t.” He seems . . . not insecure, but cautious. Like he’s a scientist about to mix two very volatile substances together. The product might be great, but he’d better be extra sure. Wear protective equipment. Take time. “I don’t want to assume anything.”

            The knot tightens. “If you have changed your—”

            “That’s not it.”

            I bite into my lip. “I was going to say, if you don’t want to—”

            “It’s the opposite, Sadie,” he says quietly. “The exact opposite. I need to tread carefully.”

            Right, then. Okay. I make a split-second decision, my second act of bravery of the evening: I step closer to him, till our feet touch through our socks, and push up to the tips of my toes.

            The first thing that hits me is how good he smells. Clean, masculine, warm. All-around delicious. The second: his collarbone is the farthest I can reach, which would be kind of amusing if my ability to breathe weren’t shot all of a sudden. If I want this kiss to happen, I’ll need his cooperation. Or rock-climbing equipment.