5. Noah

The ideaof a summer fling with Cat is equally enticing and utterly laughable. Actually, legitimately laughable. The woman doesn't just casually dislike me—there's fiery hot loathing there. We get home from the restaurant to find her sitting on the living room floor with Willow spread out on a blanket in front of her. The baby is flailing her arms and giggling while Cat keeps bending down to blow raspberries on her tummy. It's just about the most adorable thing I've ever seen, second to Willow's thrilled laughter. But when Cat lifts her head to see us walk in, the light shining in her gorgeous, round blue eyes dims as they land on me, and her smile falls flat.

Just the sight of me ruins her mood, for some inexplicable reason. Does she hate my commercials? My company? My family's resort? Me? Why does her prejudice give me the sudden, pulsing desire to make her want me? I spend too much time working out and toning my abs not to get some use out of them. Given her reaction a few days ago, that just might be the only thing about me she likes.

The moment the thought enters my mind, it leaves again. I'm not ripping off my shirt just to get Cat's approval. Get it together, man.

"How were they?" Meg asks, dropping her purse on the counter and walking into the living room to scoop up her baby.

"Absolute angels," Cat says, sitting up to gather the Carmichaels' belongings. She glances around the kitchen and smiles bashfully. "Well, messy angels. But most of that is on me."

Willow starts crying, and Meg bounces to soothe her. "They're tired," she says, "but we'll stay and clean up first."

"Don't worry about it," I tell her. "You can get your kids home. I'll clean up."

"You will?" Cat asks, standing and resting one hand on her hip. "Or you'll get your cleaning lady to do it?"

That sends an irk up my spine. "I will."

"Thanks, man," Connor says, picking up the diaper bag and tossing their things inside. Kylie is glued to the television with one eye drooping as he scoops her up, leaving Moana on in the background.

I walk them to the door, trying to listen to what's passing between Cat and Meg, but I don't hear anything.

"Thanks for dinner," Connor says, shifting his toddler in his arms as she starts to doze. "It was great catching up. Maybe we'll see you around."

"How long are you here for?" I ask.

"Another few days."

"I'm sure I'll see you again before you head back to Boston."

Connor smiles before walking down the path toward the Keene BB golf cart waiting in front of the house.

Meg follows him shortly, reaching up to kiss my cheek in farewell before taking her crying baby outside. "Thanks for dinner," she calls. "It was lovely. Good night!"

I hover at the door, but when Cat doesn't follow them, I close it and go in search of her. The TV is off. She's not in the living room or the kitchen, which looks and smells like someone made cookies for an army and left the mess behind. There's an empty bag of powdered sugar next to a can of LaCroix, which I don't keep in the house, so Cat must have brought it with her. Dirty dishes are piled in and near the sink, with globs of dough on the counter and a trail of flour from the counter to the floor. What does a person even use to clean all this up?

The thought has hardly formed when Cat comes around the corner with a bucket of cleaning products and a broom. She doesn't pay me more than a passing glance while she sets it down and starts clearing up the kitchen.

"I meant what I said. I'll handle this," I tell her.

Cat hardly looks up from where she's pushing dishes into the sink. "So I can show up next week and have to do it all over again after the dirt has had time to set? No thanks."

"I'm not incompetent."

She pauses, glancing up. Surprise flashes in her eyes. "I didn't mean that."

Give me a break. My eyebrow goes up on its own.

Cat rolls her eyes, then she looks at me. Really looks at me, as though she's clearly seeing me for the first time instead of trying to peer through a foggy window. Her shoulders sag a little, and she shakes her head. "I made the mess, Belacourt. I'll clean it up."

"You're the one who threw flour all over my kitchen?"

"I was trying to make cookies. Kylie got a little flour happy. There was talk of flour-angels at one point, but I convinced her to save it for the sand."

I fight a little smile, imagining Cat negotiating with the three-year-old. "Her parents will love you for that one."

"I love me for that one," she counters, wetting a rag and dragging it over the counter. "Way less mess to clean up."

Cat's eyes are big and blue and making me freeze in place every time they wash over me. We're in my dim kitchen, but I feel like I'm sixteen and running into her at Sunrise Cafe, hoping she'll talk to me. Or fifteen and seeing her give her last Sour Punch Straw to her friend's little brother instead of enjoying it herself. Or seventeen and hosing off my back patio, overhearing her telling her boyfriend to invite a new kid in their class to swim with them so he can start making friends.

This girl is something else. I still can't seem to break the spell she has over me. Her attention is like a gift from above, and I need to savor it. I don't think I've ever met anyone with Cat's self-possession. She knows herself, she's confident, and from a guy who spends every free second stressing or being told to fix his posture and watch his tongue, I'm envious of that.

These abs only exist because my dad thought it would be a good idea if I toned up a little for our reality show. I might keep it up now for random photoshoots or the odd commercial here or there, but they're proof that my family has put a major emphasis on appearing perfect. I doubt Cat's ever done a sit-up in her life unless she wanted to.

I need to walk away before I get drunk on Cat's attention and do something I will undoubtedly later regret.

I move to the living room and start straightening it, putting pillows back on the sofa and folding my mom's leopard-print throw blanket.

Cat keeps cleaning the kitchen. She wipes the counters, puts away the ingredients, and fills the sink with water and a liberal dash of soap to soak the pans. I can't find anything else to clean, so I head to the sink to scrub the dishes while she's sweeping.

She pauses, leaning on the broom handle. "You don't have to do that."

"I know."

There's silence for a beat while she tucks a loose blonde lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm still planning to charge you for this."

My hand stills, the sponge resting against the metal mixing bowl. "Charge me to clean a mess you made in my kitchen?"

"Just doing my job."

"Which part?"

"Both."

Is she ridiculous or teasing? I can't tell. "The mess was your job?"

She shrugs. "Yeah. It falls under babysitting."

"The cleaning, too?"

"Yep. I'd file that away with my cleaning lady responsibilities."

Okay, so she's teasing. I can't help but chuckle as I reach down into the foamy water to scrub the mixing bowl. "What kind of discount am I looking at since I'm doing the dishes?"

"Discount?" She shakes her head. "No, you can pay me for that, too."

I stop fighting the smile. She's being ridiculous, but the edge of teasing in her voice while she's talking to me might be a once in a lifetime thing here, so I'm enjoying it while I have it. "Oh, can I?"

"We'll call it distracting the cleaner."

"If I'm going to be charged for distracting you, there are much more interesting ways I'd go about it."

Cat drops the broom.

I plunge my hand back into the water so I can look down and hide my smile a little better.

She clears her throat. "Fine. Ten percent off."

"You drive a hard bargain. I could use your negotiation skills at work."

"Done."

I flick a look at her. "Or maybe not, since it didn't seem too hard to convince you."

Cat picks up the broom and sweeps the flour mess off the floor around me. I can feel her brush past me and have to tell my heart to chill the heck out.

"Why'd you arrive so long before your family?" she asks. "I don't have them returning on my schedule until next month."

My pulse starts thrumming like it wants to keep time with her quick sweeping motions. The idea of telling anyone about my anxiety outside of the small group that watched me botch the meeting and lose our partnership with Genesis Investment Firm makes my stomach sick. I don't need Cat knowing what a failure I am. It's not a good look. "I just needed to get away."

"Here for some summer surfing?" she asks, not at all aware of the turmoil under my skin.

I swallow, my throat dry. I try to will my breathing back to normal, but it's out of my control. Once the anxiety train leaves the station, it's difficult to slow down.

I need a diversion. She'd make a good one if she didn't hate me. "Maybe."

Cat bends down to sweep the flour and probably a good amount of sand—we do live on the beach, after all—into the dustpan. "Are your sisters coming out too?"

I'm pretty sure I can detect hesitancy in her question, but I can't place why she'd feel that way. Does she want them to come out, or the opposite? "They aren't planning on it, as far as I know."

Her straight nose bunches up. "You guys don't talk much?"

"Keeping up with our family group chat would be a full-time job. I quit a while ago."

Cat laughs, the sound melodic to my ears. It chases away my suddenly rising pulse, putting me at ease. I want to bottle up that sound and play it when I feel low or nervous. There are probably healing powers interwoven there.

She gathers up the cleaning supplies and leaves to put them away while I finish rinsing the last bowl and place it face-down on a dish towel to dry.

I'm well aware that our conversation has been surface level, fishing for information—how long and which of my family members she'll be forced to endure this summer, mostly—but that doesn't mean I'm ready for the night to end.

Cat pulls her belt bag over her shoulder and starts toward the front door. "Good night, Belacourt."

"Hold up, Keene." Two can play the last names game. I follow her, drying my hands and tossing the towel onto the counter as I go. "I need to pay you."

She tosses a shrewd look over her shoulder. "I was joking. I'm not taking your money."

"But you stayed to clean up."

"That's part of babysitting," she says.

I reach for my wallet.

"Seriously," she says. "The Carmichaels paid me well. I was just finishing the job."

My fingers pinch a hundred dollar bill, but don't pull it out.

She shoots me a disingenuous smile and moves to leave. "Have a good ni?—"

"How are you getting home?"

Cat stills, her elbow locking into place where it holds the door open. The dark sky behind her is filled with stars. There isn't much crime or traffic on our island, but Cat rode over here on the back of the Keene golf cart Connor was driving, and that golf cart is now back at Keene BB.

"It's a nice night," she says.

"You can take one of my?—"

"No, thanks."

How do I argue that? "Cat, really. Just take a cart. I'm not using all of them."

"It's not that." She runs her hand through her blonde hair, pushing it away from her face. "My uncle isn't really?.?.?. I just don't want to have your golf cart sitting at my house."

Ah. So there is prejudice involved. "Then give me a second and I'll drive you home."

"That's okay, but thanks. See you around, Belacourt." She closes the door behind her, and she's gone.

I open the door but don't see her. Man, she's fast. I just need to be faster. I jog for the keys to one of the golf carts and hurry into the garage, sliding into the seat while the door opens behind me. It takes way too long to back out and race down the driveway, and by the time my lights shine on Cat's shorts, she's reached the lane.

I pull up right beside her.

Her eyes flick to me and away, but she doesn't slow down. "Nice wheels, Bezos."

"Bezos?"

"He's the first rich guy I could think of."

I fall in beside her, keeping my chuckle in.

"I don't need a ride," she says.

"I'm not giving you one," I say, keeping pace.

Cat keeps walking. "You're just out for a drive?"

"No, I'm following to make sure you get home alright."

She glances at me over her shoulder, her face glowing in the golf cart's headlights. "How do you know I'm going home?"

My stomach constricts. Does she have a boyfriend? It wouldn't surprise me, but I wasn't expecting the blow. "Are you?"

"Yeah, I'm going home." She stops in the lane.

I take my foot off the gas.

Cat faces me. "You're really going to follow me all the way home just to make sure I get there safely?"

"It's not that crazy." I start to feel defensive. Is it crazy? Lately I've been unsure where to draw the line and when my mind is crossing it. I have a feeling where Cat's concerned, that line is murkier than most.

"No." She shifts to her other foot. "It's sweet."

A slow grin spreads over my face. "Sweet? Catalina Keene thinks I'm sweet?"

She shakes her head and walks around the golf cart to slide onto the seat beside me. Her shoulder presses against mine on the narrow bench. "Just drive so this can be over faster. I'm charging by the minute."

A laugh bursts from my chest. "Since you wouldn't accept any cash for cleaning, I'm not too worried."

"If I had less pride, I would have," she mutters.

Something about the way she says it leaks into my chest and makes me let off the gas a little. Not just to prolong this ride, but because something feels off. I'm silent, trying to give her room to talk if she needs to.

Apparently, she doesn't feel the need to confide in me, because she stays silent.

"How's your uncle?" I ask, so I can fill the silence with her voice. "I heard about his cancer a few years ago."

She turns to look at me, clutching the front bar. "He's good now. I mean?.?.?. yeah, no, he's good."

She was going to say something. What was she going to say? "He's in remission?"

"Yep, totally in remission. Totally alive. We had to pay a lot for him to be alive—still have to pay a lot. But at least he's alive, you know?"

I try to think of something to say, but it doesn't matter because she keeps talking.

"It's ridiculous, isn't it? People are dying and what do we do as a country? We charge them thousands and thousands of dollars to save their lives. Don't have the money? Don't worry about it! You can pay it off over the next thirty years."

Wait?.?.?. what? I stop the golf cart and turn to face her. "What happened?"

Cat leans forward, resting her face in her hands.

I grip the steering wheel and watch the back of her head, searching for something to say. She hasn't yelled at me to finish driving her home, and she hasn't jumped out of the car, so I opt to sit in the silence and let her feel whatever she's feeling.

I kind of can't believe I'm sitting in a golf cart with Cat Keene, and I don't want it to end.

I guess my crush is alive and kicking after all.