The door to Jack's Place

The door to Jack's Place was solid wood with a half-round

top. Painted bright blue, with the name discreetly displayed

in gold lettering, it always made Cat think of the entrance

to a hobbit house, as if, once inside, she might find herself

taking tea with Bilbo or Frodo. Though the restaurant

wouldn't open for a few more hours, Jack generally left the

door open for deliveries.

The interior wasn't exactly hobbit-like, but it was cozy

and comfortable, with dark wood paneling and heavy

wooden beams overhead. The flooring was oak and had

been rescued from a craftsman-style home in Pasadena that

was being tom down to make way for a strip mall, and it

showed the scuffs and scars of decades of wear. There was

a big fireplace at one end of the room, gas jets and ceramic

logs, but on winter evenings, the effect was almost as nice

as a crackling wood fire. Jack cheerfully referred to the

decor as fake English manor, but it was warm and

comfortable and suited the food he served, which he called

upscale, down-home cooking.

Cat pushed the door shut behind her, but her smile

soured when she saw the man crossing the room toward

her. He was mincing. She'd read the word in books, but,

until she met Phil Douglas, she'd never actually seen a

person mince across a room. Still, there was no other word

to describe the fussy little steps he was taking. Of course,

as tight as his pants were, it was a wonder he could walk at

all.

Cat's mouth quirked up on one side as she stood just

inside the door and watched him approach. One thing she

had to give him, he certainly knew how to make an

impression. Not necessarily a good impression but

definitely an impression.

At five foot seven―if he stretched a bit―and weighing

maybe a hundred and forty pounds, soaking wet, nature

had not blessed Phil with any striking physical attributes,

but he'd made up for it. His hair was bleached nearly white,

and he wore it cut short and gelled into a bristly glory. Cat

had once suggested it made her think of an albino

hedgehog. Phil had not been amused. A row of gold hoops

marched along the outer rim of one ear, and two diamond

studs decorated the other. He wore a pair of black leather

jeans that were so tight Cat wondered if he'd actually had

to grease his legs to get them on, but the final touch, the

ultimate grace note, was his sweater. Two-inch wide hotpink-and-black horizontal stripes encircled his thin frame

like a punk version of a barbershop pole.

Phil's expression soured even more when he saw her.

"Well, if it isn't our little poster girl for squash growing."

"And if it isn't our poster boy for bad taste." Cat's smile

was every bit as nasty as his. "Where did you get that

sweater, Phil? Prison wear for the color-blind?"

Phil's mouth tightened into a thin line. He tugged at the

bottom of the sweater. "This is a Lucy D. original."

"Really? Where'd she learn clothing design? San

Quentin?"

"Not everyone admires the bag-person look," he sneered,

giving her black leggings and teal-blue sweater a scathing

look.

Cat grinned. "Bag person? That's very p.c. of you, Phil.

Wouldn't want to show a gender bias toward the homeless,

would we?"

"Are you two fighting again?" Jack asked as he made his

way across the dining area. He was tall and lean, with

dirty-blond hair that always looked like he'd just run his

fingers through it and gray-blue eyes that changed color

with his moods.

"He started it," Cat whined, and then spoiled it by

grinning.

Jack laughed, but Phil was not amused.

"You know, one thing I won't miss is your execrable taste

in friends," he spat. Without waiting for a response, he

jerked open the door and stalked out, leather pants

squeaking with every step.

"I think I've just been insulted," Cat said, frowning at the

door.

"Nah. I'm the one with bad taste." Jack reached out to

take the box from her. "You're just the hapless object of my

bad taste."

"What was he doing here?" she asked as she followed

him back to the kitchen. "I thought you two broke up."

"We did."

"I didn't say anything when you started dating him."

"You didn't have to. Your expression said it all."

"But he's an annoying little twerp."

"No fair picking on him because he's shorter than you

are."

"His twerpiness has nothing to do with his size. Some

people are just born twerps, and Phil would be a twerp

even if he were six foot six. And don't try to distract me,"

she added, frowning at him.

"As if anyone could," Jack murmured as they entered the

big kitchen. He set the box down on one of the stainless

steel counters and turned to look at her, arms crossed, his

expression one of deep resignation. "Far be it from me to

try to interrupt you when you're in fun lecture mode."

"I'm not lecturing." He lifted his brows in mock surprise,

and Cat choked on a laugh. "Okay, so maybe I was, but I

just don't want to see you get sucked back into a dead-end

relationship."