“What’s the smile for?” I ask, my frustration with my wayward thoughts finding its way into my voice.
“Nothing,” he says. “I just didn’t think you’d have so much white fluffy stuff in your apartment.”
“What’s wrong with white fluffy stuff?” I prop a hand on my hip, ignoring Captain Snugglepants, who is now twining in and out between my legs, yowling for his supper. I always feed him around seven and he knows to expect his food dish to be filled before I make any moves toward the door.
Mick shakes his head. “Nothing. I like it. It’s cute.”
“I’ve told you several times, Whitehouse, I am not cute. In any way.”
“I know, I know.” He crouches down and extends a hand for my cat to sniff. “What’s this pretty boy’s name?”
“Captain Snufflmpth,” I mumble, spinning on my heel to stomp through the dining area and into the kitchen.
“What?” he calls after me.
“Captain Snugglepants,” I say over my shoulder as I fill the cat’s bowl, not surprised to hear Mick start laughing again. I brace myself for more “cute” accusations, but when I step back into the living room his shoulders are still shaking.
“What?” I cross my arms at my chest. “He likes to snuggle, okay? He’s the captain of snuggling. It’s a perfectly reasonable name.”
He continues to laugh, until I’m torn between the urge to punch him in the gut and start laughing with him. I go for the punch—deciding it’s the more pride-protecting option—but he catches my wrist and pulls me into him, locking his arms around my chest from behind.
“What’s with women wanting to abuse me lately?” he asks, his breath warm on my neck and his strong front pressed to my back in a way that makes my cheeks burn hotter. “First Naomi, and now you.”
“Must be your natural charm and charisma,” I shoot back, not caring for the quiver in my voice or the tingles skittering across my skin.
“Must be.” His arms tighten around me for a moment before he releases me with a suddenness that makes my head spin a little.
“Are we good to go?” He clears his throat. “We have reservations at David’s for seven-thirty. I figured we could walk there and then come back to pick up my truck to head out to the firing range.”
My forehead knits. “David’s? That’s awfully fancy.”
“I finished a big remodeling job yesterday,” he says with a shrug. “I’m feeling flush, and I want to take you somewhere nice. My treat. You can’t deny they have the best steaks in town.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “I’ve never been.”
“Well, then we have to go,” he announces with an intensity that leaves no doubt how seriously this man takes his steak. “I need to see the look on your face when you have your first bite of the rib eye. It’s going to blow your mind.”
“Should I change?” I motion down to my decidedly casual outfit, still uncomfortable with the idea of Mick spending so much money on me.
That doesn’t seem low-key, but maybe I’m reading something into this that I shouldn’t. Mick isn’t wealthy, but his parents are well-off and his older sister, Naomi, is a gajillionaire. He probably eats out at fancy restaurants all the time and doesn’t think a thing of it, unlike Yours Truly, who hadn’t eaten anywhere without a ninety-nine-cent menu until my first fire station holiday party.
Mick shrugs again. “Nah, I don’t think so. Some people dress up, but you don’t have to. I’ve seen families there in T-shirts and jeans.”
“Okay.” I force a smile, determined to stop reading too much into things and stressing out. The whole point of a casual relationship, after all, is to avoid stress and I intend to have a good time or die trying.
It’s time I proved to myself that I can do things like this. Like date a guy without worrying about where it’s going from the first kiss and freaking out about becoming my mother.
“Then let’s hit it,” I say. “I’m starving. I ran today, and I think my stomach is about to start digesting my pancreas.”
Mick laughs, holding the door open for me as we step out into the cool night and head down the stairs to the street. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want that,” he says as we emerge onto the sidewalk and head toward Main. “I hear you need your pancreas for…reasons I can’t remember.”
“Digestion.” I nudge him in the side with my elbow. “I thought you said you have a college degree.”
“I do,” he says. “But it’s in computer programming. I could hack into your medical records, but my understanding of human anatomy is pretty remedial.”
I glance up at him, my brow furrowing. “So how do you go from getting a degree in computer programming to working as a carpenter and handyman?”
“I don’t know,” he says, his gaze falling to the cracked sidewalk beneath our feet. “By the time I finished school, I was feeling pretty burned out on code and sitting in a chair all day. I needed some time to relax, work with my hands—get back to basics, you know?”