to himself while I unlocked the door. “I’m a man.”
“You’re an exceedingly drunk man,” I said.
With the door opened, I shooed my cats out of the way as I helped him stagger into my apartment. He made a break for the couch, but I spun him in the opposite direction toward the bathroom. “No you don’t,” I said. “Not before we get you cleaned up.”
I plopped him down on the closed toilet lid and he sagged against faded floral wallpaper that might be as old as some of my unwelcome fanged visitors.
The cats followed us into the bathroom, weaving figure eights around my legs as I leaned in to get the shower started.
“I’ll feed you as soon as I take care of our guest.” The gleaming copper pipes that had been installed to turn the claw-foot tub into a working shower released a friendly groan as they filled with water.
Gilbert, the oldest and largest of my feline children, flicked his tail impatiently.
“I know,” I said, testing the water’s temperature. “But it’s not like I planned on him passing out on the doorstep. I couldn’t just let him break his neck falling down the stairs.”
The expression of disdain on Gilbert’s face made it apparent that he considered this a perfectly acceptable resolution to our current circumstances.
“You’re not the one who’d have to answer to the cops,” I said. “And with everything else going on, that’s the last thing we need.”
“What’s everything?” Morrison asked. Even this far gone, the dogged thread of his cop’s logic remained intact.
“Nothing” I said. “Aside from the occasional suspended cop showing up shit-faced to my gallery show then walking all the way to my apartment for the pleasure of baptizing my new doormat, life’s peachy.”
“Liar.” He listed forward on the toilet, grabbing onto my leg to keep himself upright.
“Here,” I said, handing over a spare toothbrush anointed with a liberal smear of paste. “Brush.”
Morrison moved through the process robotically, muscle memory taking over.
“Time to spit,” I said.
At my urging, he leaned over the sink and ejected a perfect splat of toothpaste. I admired the casual grace with which he completed this task. Even sober, I managed to splatter it down my chin half the time.
“Alrighty,” I said. “Shirt off.”
Morrison looked down at his buttons like they were an advanced calculus problem. Fingers I knew to be precise to the point of pain fumbled clumsily at the stained and wrinkled fabric.
“For God’s sake.” I left the bathroom to retrieve a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves—which I fully intended to burn later—and proceeded to undo the buttons and help him out of the sleeves. “Arms up.”
Like a compliant child, he raised his arms so I could slide the undershirt over his head. I pulled it up his arms and had to suppress the urge to coo now where’s the bastard! Where did he go? when it briefly obscured his head.
“Your turn,” he suggested when he was at last free of the fabric.
“That’ll be a no,” I informed him.
He gave me a boyish pout.
“Shoes.” I snapped my fingers and pointed down at his battered brown oxfords.
He successfully kicked them off and held still while I bent and peeled away his socks. With fingers hooked through his belt loops, I wrestled him to his feet and made short work of unbuckling his belt and pants.
“You’re good at this.” From the wondering way he looked down at my busy hands, I might have been sculpting the David.
Where Morrison was concerned, the comparison was especially apt. Before he’d become a booze-swilling gallery fly with terrible taste in women, he’d been a good cop with a secret painting penchant and superior culinary skills.
“Years of practice, my friend.” Stripping his unsoiled belt out of its loops, I draped it over the nearby towel rack.
“I love you.” The words were stated so simply and clearly that, for a moment, I thought someone else might have appeared in the room.
My hands froze over Morrison’s zipper as blood thundered to my ears in a sudden rush.
“Did you know that, Miss Know-it-all?” He poked a finger at the center of my forehead.
“Sure,” I said. “And I love cheese. Ain’t love grand?” I yanked his zipper open and shucked his pants down his legs, trying not to look at one large, insistent reason why I had made this particular mistake.
“But it’s even worse than that,” Morrison continued to my great horror and consternation. “I don’t just love you, I’m in love with you.”
“You’re drunk. It’ll pass.” Down came his black