KATIE’S STEP had a new swagger as she marched back into the party. She stopped to shed my sport coat, handing it over without a word. Then she squared her bare shoulders as if going into battle. (A really sexy battle.)
I shrugged the jacket on, then stooped to pick up the pink basketball I’d been playing with earlier. It had been abandoned in a corner. Tucking it under my arm, I followed Katie into the party, where one of the Beta Rho brothers was standing in front of the drinks table opening beers. Katie asked him to pop one open for me.
“Sure thing, cutie,” he said.
“That would be Katie,” my date corrected, her voice frosty.
“Right. Just like I said.” The guy opened another bottle of beer and handed it to me.
“I like this lager,” I said, holding up my bottle. “I don’t think I’ve had it before.”
“It’s all right,” he said with half a shrug. “I think we started buying Moosehead because our treasurer is Canadian.”
“Ah,” I said, reaching over to give Katie’s elbow a meaningful squeeze. The game wasn’t even a minute old, and I’d already scored a point with “moose.”
Katie’s eyebrows shot upward. Then she grabbed my hand and tugged me over to her side. Standing on tiptoe, she admonished me in a low voice. “That was clever, tall man, but it was low-hanging fruit. Don’t get too used to winning.”
I took the risk of putting a hand onto one of her deliciously bare shoulders and leaned down toward her ear. “You talk a big game, lady. But I don’t see any action.”
Her eyes flared then. And she stood up a little straighter and stalked toward her friend Amy, who was chatting with two fraternity brothers beside the tree.
Katie was a smart girl. She’d picked a target rich environment. I followed, dodging a few people. The party was in full swing now. All the work had stopped, and guys and girls stood around in twos and threes, drinking beer and munching Christmas cookies.
Katie’s eyes were darting around the room, as if she were looking for something. But what? I’d already clocked Dash, her ex — and who calls himself “Dash” anyway? — about ten feet from Katie. Then I saw her swoop down and gather something up. When she stood up again, there was a sparkle in her eye. And a cat in her arms.
She gave me a victorious glance, then tossed all that gleaming hair over her shoulders. I maneuvered closer to her, so that I could hear whatever went down.
Katie waited for a pause in Amy’s conversation with the two beefy guys before her. “Careful,” Amy said, turning to Katie. “Mr. Whiskers is going to scratch your dress.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” Katie said. “Cats like me.” With an innocent face, she looked up at one of the guys in front of her. “How do you feel about cats?”
“I’m more of a dog person,” he said, swigging his beer.
“Are you now?” Katie said, throwing a meaningful glance over her shoulder at me. She bent her knees to release the cat. Mr. Whiskers disappeared under the Christmas tree. Then Katie gave a big sneeze. “Excuse me a moment,” she said.
I followed as Katie made a beeline for a box of tissues on a side table. “I’m allergic to cats,” she said, blowing her nose. “But that was totally worth it.”
“So you threw yourself on the sword for that point?”
“I did,” she agreed, blowing her nose.
“Well, as Teddy Roosevelt said, ‘greatness is the fruit of toil and sacrifice and high courage.’” God, I was such a dork. But Katie was still smiling, so it didn’t really matter.
“I’m winning this thing,” she said.
“You’re tying this thing. The score is 1–1, smack-talker.”
With a fiery look at me — one which I felt in some very inappropriate places — she marched off again.
