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.

“Where’d you get her?” I asked.

Tate was yanking open the bacon packet and dumping its entire contents in the skillet without separating the strips. I bit my lip at witnessing these actions and rubbed Buster who was still rubbing back.

“Someone put a box with Buster’s entire litter at the front door of Bubba’s. Fuck knows why. Krystal brought them in and was gonna take them to the Shelter. I got to the bar, Buster fought her way outta that big box, ran toward me and put her claws in my jeans. I was claimed. Nothin’ I could do,” Tate told the bacon.

He was wrong. There was something he could do. He could have put Buster back in the box. He could have let Krystal take Buster to the shelter. He wasn’t claimed. You didn’t claim a man like Tate. A man like Tate did the claiming.

Something about this story struck me and I really wanted to ignore the silken feeling of the blow. I didn’t get it but I liked it and I didn’t want to like it and I didn’t get why I didn’t want to. It said something about Tate that was unexpected and even astonishing. But it gave me a warm, sweet feeling knowing it. And that warm, sweet feeling terrified me.

To take my mind off this feeling, I scooped up Buster, doing it carefully just in case she only liked Tate cradling her. She relaxed instantly in my arms and I turned her to her back, holding her close to my chest as I gave her scratches and wandered further into Tate’s house.

There were lots of wide windows showing views of the trees surrounding his house. He had a six-seater dining room table which sat by a sliding glass door that led to the deck, the door flanked by windows. The table was oval, u-shaped backs to the chairs and somewhat beat up. I moved to the right into the huge living room. It had a long opening but was delineated from the kitchen by a counter of about four floor cabinets you could see over. More beat up furniture, a couch, some comfortable looking chairs, a TV, coffee table, end tables, all of it looking like it had been there for awhile or been somewhere for awhile.

I surveyed his couch. Tate was right. It was shit. It was beat up to the point of tatty and needed to be replaced. You wouldn’t think twice if you spilled grape Kool-Aid on it. Even so, it still looked comfortable in a cozy, sit down, stay awhile kind of way.