Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,18
you’re such a natural on TV.”
“You…!” Morticia sputtered.
“Have your cat…” I prompted. “I’m waiting for the thank-you.”
Morticia didn’t look at me as she took Salem from my arms and slipped his harness onto him. The black cat was stull furious, hissing and spitting at me.
“Hey, little guy, it was just an act,” I said soothingly. I reached out to pet him then jerked my hand back when he swiped and spat. His yellow eyes were demon slits, and I was sure if I could speak cat, I would have heard Salem cursing my ancestors.
Morticia still wouldn’t look at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said gently, suddenly feeling bad. “I didn’t think you would actually be scared. You always act so tough.” Had I screwed up? I shifted my weight.
“I wasn’t scared,” Morticia said brusquely, finally looking at me. “You just surprised me. Now we need to go clean your hand off.”
I looked at the scratch. “It’s not that bad.”
“Cats have bacteria that grows on their claws; you could get cat scratch fever. The infection starts spreading, hits your heart, and bam, you’re dead in three days.”
“That sounds histrionic,” I said.
“Don’t call me a liar,” Morticia scolded. “Now where is your apartment? You better have a first aid kit.”
“Not gonna take me back to your place?” I teased, waggling my eyebrows.
She grabbed me by the arm. “I live in a baking flophouse with over a dozen horny gold diggers who want nothing more than to string you up on a Christmas tree and milk you for all your net worth.”
“Sounds pretty kinky, to be honest. I might dig it.”
“Yeah, until you’re on divorce number three, paying for a pack of kids who aren’t even yours.”
“Dang,” I said as we headed in the direction of my building. “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”
“Of course you weren’t,” Morticia said with a sigh.
The doorman at the building gave me an odd look when I approached with Morticia.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Morticia explained in a clipped tone when the doorman opened the door. “We’re coworkers.”
“Oh, I gotcha.” He looked relieved. “Jonathan never brings women here.”
“Geez, way to blab my business!” I complained when we were in the elevator.
Morticia had a slight smirk on her lips. “So either you aren’t the sexual Casanova you want everyone to think you are, or you’re just having sex in public places and other people’s apartments.”
“That’s how you know you aren’t with a serial killer,” I explained as we rode up to the top floor of the renovated factory building. “People are less likely to kill you in your own space, because then they have to clean up the mess.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I’m just making you more comfortable,” I said breezily, “since you are coming up to my condo.” I swiped my keycard at my front door. “Welcome!”
“This is such bullshit!” she said derisively, peering inside.
“Honestly, this is the first time I’ve brought a nonfamily female up here, and I’m a little disappointed by your reaction. This was a very expensive penthouse, I assure you.”
“Penthouse?” She snorted. “This is what, the eighth floor?”
“It’s at the top of the building, Morticia. That makes it a penthouse.”
“Penthouses are supposed to be on top of a tower,” she said as we went in. “Like the slit on the tip of a cock.”
That made me perk up.
Clang! went my brain. There’s a woman here.
Clang!
You haven’t had sex in six weeks.
Clang!
She said “dick.” That means she wants you.
Clang!
“How about some Christmas music,” I said in a rush, tapping the home automation tablet and filling the living room with Bing Crosby’s crooning.
Morticia scowled. “Where’s your bathroom?”
“Back here.” I gestured.
You can’t take her to the master suite!
But what if this was all a ruse for her to sleep with you?
Or maybe it’s a test, and she’ll sleep with you if you don’t act like a dick. You should not have told her to go to the master. Tell her to use the half bath.
But Morticia was already walking down the hall.
“Wait!” I said, grabbing her shoulder and dodging another swipe from the cat, which was now perched on top of her head. “I’ll get it.”
“My cat clawed you,” she pointed out.
“It’s my house; I’m the host,” I said more forcefully than I meant to.
She gave me a strange look then returned to the living room.
In the master bath, I leaned against the counter. “Why is it so hot in here?” I wheezed, ripping off my suit jacket, undoing my tie, then throwing open a window. As the