Page 24 of Keystrokes and Kittens

“Sam?”

He met my gaze.

“It’s not a competition. We’re in this together. Backing each other up. Putting the kittens first. That’s what—” I was about to sayparents, but that always felt like a touchy subject with him. For good reasons. “That’s’ what fosters do. Put the needs of their charges before themselves. But that doesn’t mean the foster should wear themselves out. Look, I know viruses cause illnesses. That said, if your immune system is weaker because of lack of sleep, then you’re more susceptible. You work with the public. That means you’re more at risk.”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “Why do you always have to make so much sense?”

I chuckled. “It’s the mathematician in me. Oh, and the science courses I took. I enjoyed virology and biology. I handle different viruses these days—the computer kind—but I keep up on medical journals. Only prudent, I think.”

“Whereas I’m reading art history books.”

To my surprise, he put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got this. The rest of the night is up for debate. And I intend to win.” He squeezed, then yawned as he exited the kitchen.

I continued to sit there for a long time. Sam rarely touched me. Okay—never. And I refrained from touching him unless necessary. Westillhadn’t discussed the Christmas party. The kiss. The epic disaster that had come from it. Hell, we hadn’t even tiptoed around it. We were both acting like it’d never happened. Whether that was the right approach or not, I couldn’t say. I just knew the time would come where we’d have to put our cards on the table. A constant pull drew me to him. I found him as attractive now as before. More than physically, though. I enjoyed our chats. Getting to know him was proving fascinating. And every admission was like pulling teeth. Tonight felt like a breakthrough—with his admission of love of art history.

So how can I use that to my advantage? A trip to Los Angeles for certain. I should plan something for when the kittens are older and can be watched by someone else.He’d said Mandy was on maternity leave, but would be back. The problem was, I had no idea when she’d left or how long she’d be gone. Some companies offered crap benefits and virtually no time off. I offered a year’s paid leave. Except none of my employees had been pregnant or had a baby. I also offered generous sick leave—but pretty much no one ever got sick—likely because they all worked from home and, like me, rarely got out.

No, that’s not true. I get out. Just not this week.

I tried to do at least one run a week into Foggy Basin. That said, Christian had brought a load of groceries for me yesterday. Noah’s husband worked at the store and had been happy to deliver everything I needed. That way, I didn’t have to leave if I didn’t want to. I still thought Sam and I should take a breakwhile between feedings. Perhaps I could convince him to have a meal at the Blue Star Diner. Maybe brunch tomorrow? After the ten a.m. feeding? Something to consider.

Cleaning up took little time—I’d learned how to cook with minimal mess and to clean as I went along. I turned on the dishwasher, finished wiping down the counters, and then served two bowls of orange sorbet. Just small scoops.

Sam had let it slip this was his favorite frozen treat, and so asking Christian to bring a container had been a no-brainer.

As I stepped into the great room, he closed the crate door.

I clicked my tongue.

Tibby came to heel and gazed up at me.

“You’re a good girl.”

Sam turned. “Can I give her a treat?”

Tibby pressed against me—clearly understanding I held all the power in this relationship and would be the final arbiter of treat dispensation. I grinned. “Sure.” Then I held up the bowls. “One scoop of orange sorbet.”

His eyes widened and a grin spread across his face. “Really?”

I advanced toward him and handed over the bowl. “Let me get Tibby’s treat that you can give her. And yes, really. Least I can do. You’ve had a rough week.”

At first, I expected him to argue. Instead, he settled back on the couch and picked up the spoon.

I walked back into the kitchen, retrieved a treat from Tibby’s jar, and brought it back into the great room.

Sam put his bowl on the side table and took the treat from me. He held it up.

Tibby came to sit before him and waited patiently.

“Paw?”

She readily handed him her paw. Expectations were clear in this house—she always had toearnthe treat. That enabled me to keep up the training in both formal and informal ways.

Sam held the jerky on his palm.

She lapped it up with great gentleness.

My guest sighed. “She really is the perfect dog. You’ve been caring for her and looking out for the kittens.”