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His name was Mr. Kitty, which made me smile. Especially because the owner’s name was James. Which seemed far too masculine to have a cat named Mr. Kitty. It was kind of adorable.
There was something charming about a man who looked that grumpy, yet had a cat named Mr. Kitty.
It was ridiculous. And adorable. But it was probably his kid’s cat. Or his wife’s. Not that he had a ring on. Not that I was checking.
The strange desire to keep her close so I could protect her, because she was clearly way too sweet and trusting for her own good.
He rubbed circles around my legs, threading figure-eights between my calves while James watched from the door with folded arms and an appraising look. “He really likes you.” “That’s good, because I like him, too.” I bent down to let Mr. Kitty rub his face on my hand. “He’s a sweetie.” And I would never have admitted it, but I wasn’t just talking about the cat.
