Speakeasy (True North #5)(54)

He lifts his chin toward the tree line. “I’ve been at Hamish’s studio, cleaning. For the wake.”

“Oh.” I glance in the direction of the other mill building, but I can’t actually see it from here. There’s a patch of forested land between the two properties.

“I thought his studio would be a good spot for a gathering. Nice open space. We were planning a party for his retirement. But now it’s going to be…”

“His funeral,” I whisper.

Alec flinches. “Yeah. And it will be very well attended. Hamish has a lot of friends.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking blue.

I want to hug him, but I need to apologize first. “Does he have family?”

“A son. Tad.” Alec makes a face. “He’s letting me plan everything.”

“Maybe he’s too distraught to do it himself?”

“Or maybe he’s lazy and kind of a dick.” Alec makes a grumpy sound and shakes his head. “Never mind. I’m just in a shitty mood. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. That’s what I came here to say.”

Alec tilts his head and considers me. “Nah, it’s okay, babydoll. We’re cool.”

We aren’t, though. “There’s something I brought you. Can I come in for a second? Or are you headed back to Hamish’s?”

“I was going to have some lunch. Is this your lunch hour?”

“Yes.”

“Well, come on.” Alec pulls out his keys and heads for the entrance to his apartment. “Let’s eat.”

“You don’t have to feed me,” I say, following him.

“Better hear what’s on the menu before you say that,” he warns. “Roderick the baker is experimenting with pizzas.”

“Pizza!” Now I’m starving.

“Yeah. Zara and Audrey are trying to expand their lunch offerings.”

I follow Alec up the stairs at a trot. This is the first time I’ve been here in the daylight. Even the stairwell is attractive, with sunlight filtering from a skylight on the roof, making the bricks glow orange.

He unlocks the door and then hesitates. “Beware of the cat. He scratched me pretty good yesterday.” As soon as Alec opens the door, I hear a hiss. “It’s my house, asshole. Back off.”

Yikes. “He’s still not warming up to you?”

“No progress on that front.” Alec scowls. “And when I try to ask Tad what his plans are for this beast, he won’t discuss it.”

By the time I walk into the big space, the cat is cowering under the wide coffee table. I don’t know who looks more miserable today, Alec or Bukowski.

I set my shopping bag on the couch, while Alec heads over to the kitchen portion of his loft and washes his hands. Then he taps a couple of buttons on his stove.

“Can I help you with anything?” I never meant to invite myself to lunch.

“Nope. Just going to bake these for a couple of minutes. Roderick gave me precise instructions.” Alec holds up a note. “These take eight minutes. And he wants to know what we think of the topping combinations. There’s a questionnaire. So pay attention, Shipley.”

“Yessir.” I wander around the living room area and then choose a spot in the middle of Alec’s big rug to sit down. It’s a wine color that looks fabulous against the wood floors.

This puts me on the same level as the cat, who eyes me suspiciously. I stick my hand in the pocket of my jacket and scare up an odd length of yarn. It’s not much in the way of a cat toy, so I grab a ballpoint pen off Alec’s end table and tie it to the yarn.

Across the room, Alec is leaning against the kitchen island, arms folded against his fabulous chest. He’s watching me with soft eyes.

I’m six feet or so from the world’s grumpiest cat. I cast my pen out onto the rug like a fishing lure, holding the string. Then I slowly drag it toward my body.

Bukowski doesn’t move. I don’t look at him, because he might see it as a challenge. I just sit there in the middle of the rug, where the wintery sunlight makes a pattern of pale rectangles through Alec’s lovely old windows. I toss the pen again and drag it slowly.

“It’s so peaceful here,” I say in a low voice. “You’re a lucky cat, Bukowski.”

There’s no movement from under the coffee table.

“I can tell that you don’t believe me,” I continue. “So I’m gonna have to spell it out for you. See, Alec is a really good guy. The best guy. He’s fun and nonjudgmental. He’s good to his family. He’s nice to confused, alcoholic bisexuals. And to old hippie carpenters. And to, ahem, cats who behave like Satan.”

I glance up at Alec, and he gives me a slow, sad smile.

“He’s a good dancer and he cares about his friends. So, this is just a little friendly advice.” I toss the pen again, and the cat cocks his head. He wants to play. But he’s afraid to put himself out there. This cat and I have a lot in common. “If you have some issues that make you behave kind of like an asshole, don’t make the mistake that I did, okay? Try not to take them out on the hot guy with the pizzas. Because he deserves better.”

Alec drops his head, studying his shoes.

And that’s when Bukowski attacks the pen with a terrific kitty pounce. I’ve reeled him in like a fish. We play while Alec puts the pizzas in the oven and bakes them. By the time the oven timer dings, I’ve won over Bukowski. He lets me pet him on the head. And then he rubs his body all over my nice charcoal-colored work pants.