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was clearly ready to bolt, all coltish legs and nervous energy.
    If she leaves now, you’ll never get to kiss her again .
    The thought prompted him to say the next desperate thing that popped into his head. “How about a cup of tea?”
    “Yeeeah,” she answered, drawing out the word in her brassy American accent. “That would be good.”

    Maybe it was the hangover, but it was the best sandwich she’d ever had. Or maybe it was City. He moved around his tiny kitchen like he knew what he was doing, and he’d fussed over the sandwich for a long time.
    Beyond asking her how she liked her tea, though, he didn’t say a word, and that was fine with Cath. She wasn’t sure what social script applied when you’d passed out on someone, woken up in their bed, and then immediately thereafter come very close to mating with them on a table. The best strategy would no doubt have been flight, but she’d needed the sandwich.
    The food gave her necessary fuel, and it also provided time to regroup. Bad Cath and Good Cath were duking it out in her head, and she was having trouble keeping her wires from crossing.
    Good Cath was screechy, slightly hysterical: What do you think you’re doing? Sex on a table with a stranger? You don’t do that anymore! Hell, you didn’t even do that before. Knock it off. Put your clothes on. Go home. It’s still possible to turn this into a blip! It’s not too late, but you’re cutting it close, missy .
    Bad Cath, by contrast, practically purred with lust: That man can kiss, Mary Catherine. What could it hurt to do it again? You’re already here. You made your mistake. What’s the big deal if you make it a little bigger? And speaking of big, did you notice the way City felt pressing between your legs? Yeah. That. You’re going to walk out on that? Don’t kid a kidder, babe .
    What could she do but feed her stomach and try to drown out the voices?
    Plus, it wasn’t like she could simply flee the scene. She was only half dressed. At least she knew where her clothes were now. She’d spotted them drying on a rack in the corner as soon as she walked into the kitchen. City must have put them through the wash for her, but he, like so many of his backward countrymen, didn’t have a dryer.
    He could deny being nice all day long, but the guy was definitely a Boy Scout. A Boy Scout who kissed like a Hell’s Angel. Not that she’d ever kissed a Hell’s Angel. And not thatanyone had ever kissed her quite like City just had. Zero to sixty in three-point-four seconds. The man knew how to ring her bell.
    But she was done with the bell ringing, right? Right. New Cath didn’t sleep with strange men on studio tables. New Cath said, “Thanks a bunch,” got dressed, and clomped on home.
    Do that , New Cath instructed. Do that right now .
    “Listen, City,” she said. “About last night. Thanks for—”
    For getting me back on the train? For taking me home with you, undressing me, letting me sleep in your bed, washing my clothes, setting out a towel and a toothbrush for me, and making me breakfast? Oh, and let’s not forget kissing me and touching me until I damn near lost my mind .
    “—for taking care of me,” she finished.
    It was lame, but it would have to do.
    “You’re quite welcome.” He didn’t look over at her, just carried on washing dishes at the sink as if this were a perfectly normal morning and they were having a perfectly ordinary conversation. He wore yellow rubber gloves to do the dishes. She’d never before met a man who could pull off yellow rubber gloves, or who was even willing to risk his masculinity by trying, but City was managing nicely. The jeans, the T-shirt, the gloves: he was really doing it for her, tip to toe.
    It wasn’t just the way he looked, either. She kinda liked him. Now that she’d met him, she could see that the pink cheeks weren’t the only thing about City that didn’t square with the portrait in her journal. Hardly anything about him did. She’d