Sweet Dreams (Colorado Mountain #2)(81)

He pushed open the door and led me into a mudroom that was so big, you could fit a couch and TV in there. There was a window through which I could see a patio out back and the hill had been terraced. There were wildflowers, some perennials but those had been planted haphazard, they obviously weren’t tended and I doubted Tate planted them (and wondered who did). In the mudroom there were two big alcoves with hooks that were full of stuff. Jeans jackets, leather jackets, canvas weatherproof parkas. On the floor I saw that Tate not only owned one pair of black motorcycle boots but around fifty. There were also muddy work boots, a pair of dusty cowboy boots shoved in a corner and there was a mess of running shoes in different states of newness from totally battered and falling apart to brand spanking.

Tate didn’t give me much of a chance to look around before he was pulling me through the room. I saw a doorway that led down some stairs and about three feet beside that we went through another opening. This one led to a hall. As we walked through, to the left I saw a utility room that was the utility room to end all utility rooms. It was awesome. It was better than Brad and my utility room in Horizon Summit which I thought was a danged fine utility room. I might not have liked my house but my utility room was the bomb. Tate’s had a big washer and dryer, side by side. A long, deep counter opposite it. Hooks on the walls. Doors to a big built-in cupboard. A deep bowled utility sink.

Tate tugged me further down the hall and the space opened up into a kitchen and beyond that was even more open space, a dining area feeding to the side into a living room.

He dropped my hand when we entered a big, u-shaped kitchen with a middle island and I stopped but he kept moving into the dining area.

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.