Page 49 of Something Old

Grant couldn’t talk, so he merely nodded again.

A few minutes later, she half turned in his arms and looked up at him. “He was a really good cat, though. So good.”

Grant looked down. “Okay, don’t get too carried away. I’ve met him, after all. ‘Really good’ is a huge stretch.”

It was apparently the right thing to say at the moment—thank goodness—because she grinned a little.

“Seriously, though,” he added a moment later. “He was all right. For a cat.”

She smacked him, then sniffled. Grant liked the feeling of her in his arms, of them not just sitting close but being close. Yet he would’ve done anything for their reunion not to be due to Madeline losing Boots—even have her hate him.

“I don’t get it,” he said, thinking aloud. “You had him for months—and you said he’d obviously been homeless for a while. You put posters everywhere and got nothing. Why claim him now? Who’s the so-called owner?”

Madeline shrugged against him. “The woman said something about a long holiday or something and a house sitter—I don’t even know. I couldn’t take in details properly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Another shuddery sigh. “Thanks.”

At some point—Grant wasn’t sure precisely when because being with Madeline always carried undercurrents of want and desire for him—the mood moved from consolation to . . . something else.

As she calmed down, he loosened his embrace but kept his arms linked around her waist. She remained leaned against him, nestled in the V of his outstretched legs. Her hands, which had been resting on his thighs, started to move up and down his legs from hip flexor to just above his knee in smooth circles, lightly at first, but then with more pressure until it was like a proper massage. It felt amazing for many reasons, his sore old-man muscles and prone-to-aching joints being the smallest of them.

His hands flattened against her ribcage, and he realized he was mimicking the soothing circles she had started—and he was increasingly aware of the plump swell of her breasts, which his thumbs brushed at the top of every circling movement.

He wasn’t at full attention but was definitely . . . engaged in the goings-on. He shifted, trying to get a bit of distance and be . . . less obvious. Madeline shifted too, however, pushing her bottom into him with a delicious, undulating movement. Apparently, she didn’t mind his increasing . . . obviousness.

She stopped rubbing his legs, placed her hands over his, and then guided his upward until they cupped her breasts. Despite the satin encasement of her bra, he could feel her nipples against his palms. He shuddered against her, feeling a warm buzz of happiness, want, and need—and then came to his senses.

This was . . . all wrong. Or, actually—hopefully—it was totally right, just the wrong time.

He dropped one hand back to Madeline’s waist and slid his other hand up, lifting her chin until her face was upturned to his. She smiled, and he bent his head over hers and pressed a light, upside-down kiss to her lips. And then, feeling more than a little regretful—even though he knew it was the right thing to do—he whispered, “Not now, not like this. Some time I hope, for sure—but when you’re not so sad.”

For a second, he thought, or, more accurately and shamefully, hoped, Madeline was going to argue or insist they continue. He wasn’t made of stone. If she was vehement—

But no. She studied him for a moment, then bowed her head and nodded. A moment later, she got up from the chaise and stepped away from him, smoothing her shirt as she did. “You’re right,” she said slowly, her voice hoarse. “A relationship built on having shared misery in common would probably never work.”

Grant’s heart thudded, and his whole body felt cold—and frustrated—at her departure, but even more . . . He was aghast at how badly she’d misconstrued him. And “misery in common”—that’s what she thought they shared?

“No,” he said, willing her to hear him, to really hear him, and hoping that on some level, she would feel similarly—if not now, then sometime. “That’s just it. I feel joy when I’m with you, Madeline. I am joyful. And I’m excited about the future—both things I never expected to feel again, even if life somehow got better. Even-keel would’ve been the best I hoped for. And now . . . ” He shook his head. “It’s a wonderful thing. I never expected it.”

Madeline just looked at him.

“Walk you home?” he asked softly when she still didn’t speak.

She cleared her throat. “Sure.”

They took the long way, walking the few blocks via sidewalks instead of cutting through the yard because the grass was wet. The extra time it took was a good thing because Madeline had other problems to unload besides the loss of Boots. Arriving at her house, they lingered a while at her front door because they were busy talking. When they finally said goodbye—each of them still showing great physical restraint—she asked, “Holly still due to arrive next week?”

“Ugh, yeah,” Grant said—then smiled to himself, realizing he’d unconsciously used one of Madeline’s expressions, exactly the way you did when you spent a lot of time with someone. “Don’t remind me.”

In the light from the single bulb above her door, Madeline’s face was hard to read, and it gave Grant a funny, uncomfortable feeling that she knew something he didn’t—or thought she did. “What?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Nothing.” She reached up and patted his cheek affectionately, and he resisted the urge to turn his head and kiss her hand and thus restart what he had so short a time ago turned off—or slowed down at least.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“Just a thank you. I . . . really needed you tonight,” Madeline whispered in a rush, as if embarrassed.