Titus: Book Two of the Cantrell Brothers Series

Chapter Twenty-Five

Anna scraped a pancake off the pan with her new, handy dandy, plastic spatula that did wonders on the metal surface. A perfect golden hue from the precise timing of her cooking, the single pancake was cooked just the way she liked it – soft on the outside and just a little doughy in the middle.

She put the maple syrup in the microwave and waited until the liquid was emitting steam from inside the porcelain cup. It went on smoothly, dowsing her pancake until she had the perfect ratio of pancake to syrup. This, she realized with annoyance, was exactly how Titus liked his pancakes, doughy in the middle and soaked in syrup with just a dab of butter.

And he would have gotten a taste of his favorite breakfast foods if he would have accepted her peace offering. It had become a ritual with her; one that she did religiously. Check the fridge. See untouched food that she cooked to the best of her ability for him. Close the fridge. Make a peace offering dinner. Watch as he made himself a sandwich. Feel the choking hands of defeat.

That was how it had been for the past couple of days, and she hated it. She hated that she couldn't talk with Titus whenever she wanted – that he probably wouldn't respond even if she was burning alive in a fire or falling of a roof. She hated that she had to tiptoe around a man who she still knew as her closest friend. That he wouldn't so much as acknowledge her apologies.

“Oh,” she grumbled in the most quiet of voices to herself, imitating Titus. “Hi, Anna. Please, excuse me while I just completely ignore you like the immature child that I am. What was that?” She paused, allowing imaginary Anna to speak her piece. “You're annoyed at me because I won't accept your apology despite the fact that you've apologized to me time and time again?”

Anna cut off a piece of her pancake, delighting in the gooey and yet fluffy texture. The faintest rays from the sunrise flickered in, adding to the the romanticized ambiance of the Circle T's ranch house kitchen on Thanksgiving morning.

“Oh, it's Thanksgiving?” she asked the sink in her best, no-nonsense Titus Cantrell voice. “Well, that means that my entire family's gonna be coming over tonight. I probably should shape up my attitude, huh? Maybe I should stop moping around and actually communicate with my living buddy.”

Anna stopped talking. She liked hearing imaginary Anna rant. “Nah,” her inner Titus said, waving his figment of a hand, “why would I do that when I could just completely ignore you and pretend like I lost my fake hearing aids? I am pretty old, ya know. Four months from thirty-three is pretty high up there.”

“Oh, no. You're not getting old,” she assured in her normal voice. She had been reduced to this level of practicing her conversations with him, and if this was the best she could come up, she was going to have some problems.

“Well, I gotta go work and do all that manly stuff that I do 'cause ya know...I'm manly. No worries. The only reason why I've become mute around you and only you is because I'm just too manly for your un-manliness, Anna,” imaginary Titus said and then was replaced by normal Anna as fur brushed her bare calves.

Salt and Pepper pawed at her, their maturing minds probably wondering why their human mother was talking to herself in a low and extremely horrid voice. She picked her babies up and put them on the counter where they almost got at her syrup.

“I know,” she whispered conspiratorially, still leaning against the island table. “Daddy's been kinda grumpy lately, hasn't he? He won't talk to you either?” she mock gasped, smoothing the twins' furry faces. “He'll be in a better mood tonight...I hope.”

They nodded their cat heads and went over to the small decoration she had debated about placing on the island table for the longest time. But it was on there now, and she wasn't going to move it. She did, however, slide her plate around on the wooden surface, watching as the syrup came so close to sloshing over the sides and then recede into the middle.