George and Sir Edmund Hillary—named for his enjoyment of climbing literally everything in my house—had settled in nicely. The litter boxes were in my mudroom off the back porch. Their scratching post was in the front window. And their fur was everywhere else.

I’d stepped up my vacuuming game to every other day to keep up with the hairballs that accumulated all over the damn place and tried not to think about the hairless pigs Juney kept harping on. I liked having them around. They were good nap buddies. They meowed back to me when I talked to them. The three of us had spent hours playing with feathers on a stick and catnip-stuffed mice.

I wished I hadn’t pulled the trigger on those store-bought Christmas cards in August so I could have dressed the cats up in Santa hats and done one of those pet picture cards.

Next year.

Yep. I was embracing being a cat lady.

I was on-call today. One of those rare Sundays when I could mostly pretend to be a regular person. But other than handling a nuisance complaint or two, the day was mine. I’d slept in, with George cuddled to my back and Eddie sprawled on the empty pillow next to me, then made myself a beef stew that would feed me for a week straight.

The cooking was done. The cleaning complete. The cats were napping.

I didn’t know what to do with myself.

Normally, I’d be scrolling through a dating app or flipping through old case files. I was a deputy now, but that wasn’t the end of the road for me. Someday, I’d be sheriff. But I had to earn it. Not be handed it because of my last name. So, I studied those case files and I audited the occasional public administration class online. But that was just the beginning of the job. In Bootleg, the sheriff’s department was sewn right into the fabric of our little, weird society. Our job wasn’t only to police and protect, but to communicate and help, to educate and sometimes even entertain.

I followed in my father’s footsteps, taking an active interest in every single person in my town.

But today, I kind of wanted to be a regular human.

George snored from his perch on the windowsill in the dining room, and I whipped out my phone to record the adorableness.

I wondered if being a crazy cat lady would hinder me in my pursuit of the office of sheriff?

I heard a noise out the back and poked my head outside. Jonah was hauling a bag of trash to the bin Bowie kept along the back fence. Our yards were divided by a useless, hip-height fence that had seen better days.

Bowie had once suggested tearing it down and opening up the whole space to us both, but I preferred that physical barrier. Just like the door between our two halves. Barriers were essential when it came to dealing with the man that had broken my teenage heart.

“Howdy, neighbor,” I called out.

Jonah tipped his chin. “Hey, Cass. Got any trash that needs hauling?” he asked.

“Nope,” I called back.

Why couldn’t it be Jonah? I wondered. Why couldn’t that particular Bodine brother make my blood sing? He was a pleasant sort, easy on the eyes, too. And being a personal trainer, he’d keep my ass in shape. He already lived next door. Convenient for booty calls.

I considered the situation for a moment before remembering my recent decision to give up on the male gender entirely. Besides, did I really want to settle down with someone who would put me at the Bodine table every holiday? No siree. It was bad enough seeing Bowie in my parents’ kitchen every Thanksgiving.

“I’m headin’ over to the Pop In,” Jonah said, zipping up the vest he wore instead of a coat. “Need anything?”

The Pop In was the Bootleg Springs version of a gas station and general store. “Popcorn!” I’d have myself a cozy movie night tonight. Maybe Dirty Dancing or Sixteen Candles. Or better yet, an action movie where nobody fell in love with anybody and they all still had a damn good time.

He gave me the thumbs-up. “On it. I’ll deliver.”

“Thanks, Jonah!”

I was still watching him, wondering why his denim-clad ass didn’t hypnotize me the way his roommate’s did, when the ass I was comparing it to walked out the back door.

“Hey,” Bowie said, from his side of the back porch.

“Hey,” I said back. He was wearing low-slung sweats and a long sleeve thermal shirt. He was tall, lean, a little scruffy, and every other damn thing that I liked in a man’s body.

Yep, I pretty much hated him in that moment.

I was a split second away from finishing up my ogling and making an excuse to go back inside when Sir Edmund Hillary decided it was a fine time for an adventure. The skinny little bastard streaked between my feet and dashed across the porch.

“No!” I yelled. It was winter, and the cats were new to me and my house. I hadn’t let them explore the backyard yet in fear that this exact thing would happen. “Eddie, come back!”

Barefoot, I took off after him, ignoring the icy concrete of the walk beneath the soles of my feet.

He stopped six feet ahead of me and blinked like he was gonna let me catch him.

Cautiously, I approached. The little bastard let me get within a foot of him, and when I swooped down to make my move, he skirted out of my range.

“Holy shit! When did you get a cat!” Bowie called from his side of the fence.

“When I gave up on men.”

Eddie changed course and ran straight for the fence.

“Stop!” I suddenly and viscerally empathized with every parent who ever put their child on a leash.

Eddie launched himself at the peeling wood. His little feet scrambled for purchase and then he was up and over.

Bowie dove like a receiver stretching for the game-winning touchdown pass. He landed hard with an “ooof.”

I tiptoed through the residual snow and peered over the fence.

“Got ‘im.” Bowie held Eddie up triumphantly by the scruff of the neck. Eddie’s front feet stretched out in front of him uselessly. He looked thoroughly disgruntled. Bowie was wet and muddy down the entire left side of his body.

I couldn’t help it. They made a ridiculous picture. The laugh escaped before I could pull it back.

“Happy to entertain,” Bowie smirked, cuddling Eddie to his chest. Eddie’s ears were down, and his tail twitched, but he submitted to the head scruffing Bowie doled out. I didn’t blame him. Bowie’s hands always did look so…competent.

We met at the fence.

“Gave up on men, huh?” Bowie asked as I leaned in to take the cat from him.

Our hands got tangled up as Eddie tried to squirm his way loose and those competent hands were smashed right up against my breasts. Why hadn’t I put on a bra? Bowie’s jaw was clenched, his eyes on the struggling cat pinned between us. The rough edge of the fence dug into my stomach. The ground was freezing under my naked feet. I had at least eight cat claws embedded in my skin and all I could feel was Bowie’s hands.

“Sorry,” he muttered to me as we wrestled.

Oh, holy hell. All those years of adolescent fantasies and this was how Bowie Bodine first touched my boobs. And he apologized. Real life was stupid and unfair. In desperation, I grappled my stupid, unfair cat out of Bowie’s arms and stepped back. I slipped on an icy chunk of slush and almost went down, but I recovered just as he reached over the fence to grab me.

“I’m good. I’m good,” I said, taking another hasty step backward.

My face had to be six shades of tomato judging by how hot my cheeks felt.

“You sure?” Bowie asked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweat pants. Was it my imagination or was that a very clear penis impression in his pants?

Oh, Lord. I was seven shades of tomato now. I looked like Merl’s farm stand in July.

“Yep. Good. Thanks.” I ran for my back porch with numb feet and flaming face.

George was sitting neat as you please in the open back door. His tail was curled around his feet, the tip flicking to an unheard beat. He yawned as I stumbled up the porch steps.

“Don’t you even think about it,” I grumbled to him, shoving both cats inside and slamming the door on Bowie’s gaze.