I grab my drink and claim the empty seat beside the woman. She sips her incredibly pink drink and scrolls without looking up. I can’t speak at first. I’m literally stunned by her beauty. I lean an inch closer; she smells of vanilla and cinnamon.
Her skin is creamy white with a scatter of freckles across her nose, and her wide eyes are an unexpected whiskey brown. And her lips . . . I don’t dare to study her lips for long.
I tap her arm, and she finally glances at me out of the corner of her eye. I hold out my hand.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Will you shake my hand? I want to tell my friends I’ve been touched by an angel.”
Yeah, yeah, I know it’s terribly cheesy, but I mean every single word.
She blinks, and with a nervous laugh, she puts her hand in mine. I kiss it softly.
“I’m Joe.”
“Kathleen,” she says.
I shiver a little, still shell-shocked by being so near to her, but I try to stay calm. “I saw you earlier at the desk.” With a guy, I remember. Where is he now? I nod casually at her cat ears. “Are you here for CatFest?”
She nods. “Are you?”
I nod, too. Her lips curve up into a smile. I want to trace them with my finger.
“Who’s your special cat?” I ask.
“She’s—” She shakes her head. “You know, I don’t want to talk about her right now. I just had an irritating interaction with someone, and . . . let’s talk about something else, okay?”
Even better. “Then tell me about you. Who are you, what do you do, and what do you love—other than cats?”
“I’m a hairstylist.”
“That explains it.”
She tilts her head. “Explains what?”
“Your glorious hair.”
She laughs lightly. “Thank you, but I think my parents get most of the credit.”
I lean in, focused only on her face. “Tell me about them. Are you close? What are they like?” She doesn’t pull away. In fact, her eyes grow a little wet.
“Well, they’ve passed away actually.”
My lips pinch. Great job, Joe. Bring up a sensitive subject and make her cry the first minute you meet her. “I’m so sorry.”
She sniffs a little but doesn’t immediately wipe the tears away. “Thank you. They were in a car accident eight years ago. My brother James and I, we only had each other after that. He’s here at CatFest with me, actually.”
It was her brother. Better and better.
“What about James? What’s he like?” If he’s here, he has to be a safe subject to ask about, right?
“Like having a splinter that you can’t pull out,” she says. “But he’s the only family I have.”
I wince at the plaintive note in her voice and mentally smack my head. Her brother is a sore subject, too. “What about friends, or, um, boyfriends?” I tense, waiting for the answer.
“None to speak of,” she says. “Boyfriends, I mean. I have plenty of friends down in the Springs. They keep me sane.”
“I’m glad to hear that. So, you’re from Colorado Springs?”
The man on her other side bumps her chair and apologizes, breaking the spell that seems to have wrapped us in a web of golden silence. She startles and smiles at him forgivingly, which makes me inexplicably jealous.
“Yes, that’s home,” she answers. “What about you? Where are you from, and what do you do, and who or what, do you love?”
“I’m from Tampa Bay.”
“That explains your tan.”
I grin. “I like to be outdoors a lot on weekends, fishing, golfing, that kind of thing. During the week, I’m a project manager for a series of mind-numbingly boring projects. I live with my cat, never married, no kids, and usually no food in the house.” I laugh. “I eat out a lot. I do have friends, and a cousin I hang out with all the time.”
“I love to cook. If I had access to a kitchen, I’d cook for you.” Her eyes fall to her drink, like she didn’t plan for that to come out of her mouth.
I touch her hand. “I’d love that, but don’t worry, I can cook for myself. I’m just a little lazy.” All true.
“Have you always lived in Florida?” she asks.
“Born and raised,” I answer. “Are you a native Coloradan?”
She nods. “I moved to New Mexico for a few years, but that was to get away from James for a while.”
I squint. “Why?”
She twists a few tendrils of hair around her hand, and it makes me want to do the same. Lord, I want to touch this woman.
“James is . . . well, he’s an overgrown boy. He needs to either grow up and move out on his own or get another mother. I’m tired of pretending to be his.”
“He lives with you? Why don’t you kick him out?”
Her shoulders hunch. “I don’t think he can survive on his own. He’d end up starring on one of those episodes about hoarders where those unfortunate people pee in empty soda bottles because the toilet breaks, and the clean-up crew finds dead mice under collapsed piles of rotten takeout containers.” She shudders. “And he does take good care of my cat. I know because I installed a hidden nanny cam in the house after he set the toaster on fire and exploded the blender . . . all in the same afternoon.” We both laugh. “What about your family?”
“My dad died a few years ago. Cancer. My mom, Shirley, tends to be a little . . .” How should I put it? I rub the back of my neck and squint. “Overbearing. She doesn’t have a lot of people in her life other than me.”
“I had to pay James to come with me.”
“I’d pay to come with you.” My voice is perfectly steady and serious, because I’m perfectly serious. Her gaze flicks to me, and the intensity between us flares.
“That . . . wouldn’t be necessary,” she says.
We both take a drink. Flames lick at my nerve endings. This weekend was already important for Romeo and me, my Instagram-famous Persian cat. I want him to win the CatFest Best Newcomer award tomorrow night and that lucrative Purina sponsorship, so I can be freed from cube hell to focus on his success. But I never expected to meet a woman like Kathleen while here. Not in my wildest dreams.
Her drink is getting low. I nod at it. “Can I buy you another?”
“Sure, thanks. It’s a Kitty Royale.” She pauses, looking shy. “It’s actually my birthday tomorrow. But don’t ask me how old I am.”
“It wouldn’t matter to me.”
I’m already in love, I almost say. But I don’t want to scare her away, and a comment like that would definitely do the trick. I tip the rim of my glass toward hers.
“Happy birthday.” I pause, my thoughts motoring ahead. “It seems like a shame to waste this opportunity to celebrate.”
“I’m celebrating right now, with you,” she says sweetly.
I pull a face. “Well, this isn’t good enough. Let’s brainstorm a better way to ring in a new year of your life.”
I order her drink and a second Jack and ginger for myself. If we were in Tampa, I could wine and dine her properly, but I’m not that familiar with Denver.
“All right,” I say when the bartender brings us fresh drinks, “what kinds of things do you like to do?”