“Well, come on in,” I said.
I checked my pantry and grabbed my last can of tuna, realizing I was going to have to stock up on some genuine cat food if this was going to continue to be a regular thing. I turned back to find the little man at my feet. He wrapped himself around my ankle and rubbed the side of his face against my shin.
“You’re going to need a name, I suppose,” I said. I glanced at his tuxedo markings. He had white feet, like socks, and a white chest that came all the way up his chin and the lower half of his face, making it look like he was wearing an eye mask. “You look like quite the gentleman in your suit; how about we stick with ‘Sir’ for now?”
He let out a noise that was somewhere between a squeak and a meow, a squeow or a meeak, hard to say, but I took it as assent.
“Excellent,” I said. “Allow me to plate your tuna, Sir.”
He sat down and curled his long black tail around his body, a study in patience. While I opened the can and put half of it on a plate, I told him about my day. He blinked in sympathy. His golden eyes were ever watchful, but I was quite certain it was sympathy I saw in his gaze. When I dished my own food, I set his tuna down before him while I took a seat at the table.
It occurred to me that, without him, I would feel lonely, and I was grateful for his company. Even though he wasn’t a dazzling conversationalist, he was an excellent listener, which I’ve always felt was a vastly underrated quality in a man.
After dinner, Sir went outside, returning a while later and making himself at home on the red throw. I didn’t mind. I made a cup of tea with honey and fired up my laptop to watch a cozy British mystery. I made it through one and a half episodes before I started to doze.
Per usual, when I shut up my house for the night, I left the door ajar so that Sir could come and go as he pleased. He wasn’t a pet, after all, just a dinner guest. Not surprisingly, he climbed into bed with me, and I fell asleep to the soothing sound of his purr. It seemed Sir and I had developed a lovely routine. Needless to say, I’d forgotten his presence might be unwelcome by the landlord, and it was a bit of a surprise to wake up to a note taped to my door on Friday morning.
Sir had left sometime in the wee hours of the morning. As I went to close the French door, I discovered the note taped to it instead of the front door. Huh.
I grabbed the envelope and glanced up at the big house. I stared at the curtained window where I had seen the hot guy several days ago. No, I hadn’t forgotten about him. Nothing moved, nothing twitched; in fact, there were no signs of life at all. I closed my door and latched it.
I took the letter to the kitchen, where my coffee was waiting. I put it on the counter and while I sipped from my mug, I pondered the business-size envelope as if it were an incendiary device I needed to deactivate.
Finally, I put down my coffee and snatched up the note. I tore it open and a single sheet plopped onto the counter. I lifted it by a corner and shook it open.
Dear Ms. Martin:
At precisely seven thirty-three last evening a black-and-white feline was seen entering the guest house which you rent from me. [Like I needed the reminder.] Per the list of rules you agreed to when you moved in, you’ll note that—on page two, paragraph four, line seven—pets of any kind are expressly forbidden. Your attention to correcting this matter is greatly appreciated.
—Daire
P.S. What is the cat’s name?
The postscript surprised a laugh out of me. He was demanding I ditch the pet while fully acknowledging that I had likely named it. All of a sudden, I felt as if my landlord saw me with a clarity few people possessed. My determination to meet him multiplied to the tenth power. And if the hot guy was around, well, meeting him was collateral damage I could live with.
Instead of scribbling a return note to my dear landlord, explaining that Sir was not a pet but a guest, which would likely not appease his ire, I decided it was time to level up. If I wanted to actually meet my landlord, it was clear I was going to have to do something drastic. I was going to have to break all the rules.
* * *
Naturally, I did not include Sophie and Miguel in my plan, because I suspected they would not approve. Instead, I tapped my coworkers and convinced them that rather than going out for happy hour, they should come to my house. The added bonus of this was, of course, no Carson because it was by invitation only.
I cut out of work on my lunch hour and did a food and beverage run. Once the house was stocked, I did a quick cleanup. Then I grabbed the list of Mr. Daire’s rules. I wanted a refresher so that I could hit as many as possible this evening.
It did occur to me that I was flirting with the distinct possibility of eviction, but I kept hearing Mrs. Guzman’s voice in my head—“It’ll give him something else to think about”—and I had to believe that there was a message there. The fact that he thought I would live here for six months and we’d never meet was crazy. Wait, maybe he was crazy.
Well, there was only one way to find out. I did a visual sweep of my house before I hurried back to work. Tonight, one way or another, I was going to meet Mr. Daire.
I arrived home from work and fired up the party playlist on my Bluetooth speaker. I had told the others that I had a pool–hot tub combo and recommended that they bring bathing suits, so they’d all gone home first. Yes, I was living quite dangerously.
Musically, I was going for a suave cocktail vibe and chose the bossa nova classic “Summer Samba.” I put out appetizers and set up the bar. I was just filling the ice bucket when there was a knock on the door. I checked my cocktail party ensemble—black Capri pants with flats, and a polka dot top with a red silk scarf holding my hair back—before I answered the door.
“Hello,” I cried as I opened the door. “Come on in.”
It was Nyah, Booker, and Luz. Looking past them I could see Christian, Trent, and Shanna getting out of the second car in my driveway. I’d left the gate open when I got home so they could enter at will. I’d told them whoever arrived last needed to shut it behind them and I hoped they did, but if not, so what? It would be one more thing that Mr. Daire would have to complain about, but as I recalled, leaving the gate open had not been included in the rules. A shocking oversight, no doubt.
“Your place is so cute!” Nyah bounced into the house and made right for the bar. She glanced at the alcohol and mixer stash, cocked her head to listen to the music, and said, “Whiskey sours, who’s in?”
“Step aside,” Trent ordered. “You’re too young to know how to make a proper whiskey sour. I’ve got this.”
Nyah raised her hands in the air and stepped back. Booker grabbed one of her hands and began to dance with her. She looked delighted and I smiled. I crossed the room and opened both of the French doors, letting our music and laughter and chatter drift out into the night. I watched the windows across the way, but there wasn’t so much as a twitch of a curtain. Hmm.