I looked around.
He needed new appliances. His range, fridge and the front of his dishwasher were almond colored and probably worked fine but they were far from new. His cabinets were great, a glossy, lovely, warm, honey-colored wood that I couldn’t place and there were tons of them. The countertops, I noticed, were battered and needed to be replaced. But there was a big, wide, rectangular island in the middle that was covered with well-used butcher block top and it was phenomenal.
I stopped looking around when I heard a soft “mew” and I looked toward Tate to see he was crouched. He straightened and turned to me.
I froze and stared.
Tatum Jackson, ex-pro football player, ex-cop, now bartender/bounty hunter, tall, beautiful and more man than I’d ever experienced in my life was standing on the edge of his kitchen holding a cat.
And it wasn’t just any cat and he wasn’t just holding it. He was cradling it. It was white with big splotches of tiger-striped ginger. Its hair wasn’t long or short but in between and it looked thick and soft. It was not small but not large, kind of petite and, no other word for it, dainty. What struck me most were the cat’s eyes, which were just as ginger as its tiger splotches and downright striking.
Tatum Jackson owned a beautiful, dainty cat. He did not own a German Shepherd or a Rottweiler. He owned a dainty cat.
And he cradled it, the cat’s lower body resting on his forearm, the cat’s tail gliding across his bicep, the cat’s front paws straddling Tate’s wrist and the cat’s head resting in Tate’s big hand. It was purring loudly because Tate’s fingers were giving it scratches and I understood that, I purred in my way too when Tate’s fingers were in my hair.
My eyes went from the cat to Tate as he walked back into the kitchen, still holding the animal.
“You own a cat?” I asked.
“Yep,” he answered and I moved further into the room because he went to the fridge and I had to get out of the way. He opened it and looked inside. “You like BLTs?” he asked.
“Sorry?” I asked back, still processing the fact that Tate owned a cat.
He turned to look at me, the cat contentedly purring in his arm, the fridge door still open.
“Bacon, lettuce and tomato,” he said.
I pulled myself together and answered, “Yes,” then pulled myself together more and amended, “without the L and the T and with ketchup.” I stopped then remembered something and finished, “And the bread has to be toasted.”
Tate grinned at me. “So, you’re sayin’ you like bacon and ketchup sandwiches.”
“Um… yes,” I affirmed.
“Right,” he muttered, bent, dropped the dainty cat, straightened and reached into the fridge. The cat kept purring and started winding its way around Tate’s ankles as Tate closed the fridge door and moved to the counter by the stove.
I dropped my purse on the top, leaned a hip against the island and watched the cat follow Tate, staying close and still winding and rubbing against his ankles. This was obviously a practiced dance because Tate moved naturally and the cat avoided his boots but remained close.
“What’s your cat’s name?” I asked.
“Buster,” Tate answered, opening a drawer and pulling out a knife.
I looked at Buster. Buster was no Buster. He looked like a girl.
“He looks like a girl,” I informed Tate.
“That’s ‘cause she is a girl,” Tate informed me and my eyes went to his back.
“You named a girl cat Buster?”
He glanced over his shoulder at me as he slid the knife through the plastic on the bacon.
“Yeah,” he answered.
I looked back at the cat who was now sitting by Tate’s feet, sweeping her tail along the tiles of the kitchen floor and staring up at me with intelligent curiosity in her ginger eyes. She’d obviously just noticed my existence. Definitely female. Tate was around and showing you attention, all else in the world ceased to exist.
The cat and I stared at each other and I decided she was no Buster. She looked more like a Princess Fancy Pants.
“She doesn’t look like a Buster,” I declared, “more like a Princess Fancy Pants.”
Tate was bent and pulling a skillet out of a cupboard.
His head tipped back and his eyes locked on mine. “You call my cat Princess Fancy Pants, Ace, we got problems.”
Oh dear. Seemed Tate had bonded with his cat even more than it appeared he’d bonded with his cat and it was pretty clear he’d seriously bonded.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Tate straightened with skillet in hand and his mouth moved while he did it. I noticed this and knew it was him fighting a smile. He turned to the stove and put the skillet on it. I crouched down and cooed to Buster. Without hesitation, she pranced to my outstretched hand, gave it the barest sniff then rubbed her head against it.
“She’s friendly,” I noted.
“Yeah,” Tate agreed.