I scramble after Fitz, who’s already knocking on the door. The concrete patio is narrow and I push for a place in front of the door next to him.

Our arms brush and I catch a whiff of his cologne, which is actually quite nice smelling even though he looks like hell warmed over and has an attitude lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.

The door swings open. It’s a scruffy man in a bathrobe. Except it’s not like any robe I’ve ever seen. It’s fancy—a velvety material covered in . . . are those cats?

He’s also holding a sleepy white cat that perfectly matches the felines on his robe.

He is definitely not the little old lady of my imagination, with his longish brown hair and scruffy beard. He vaguely resembles Jesus, actually, the one depicted in the Baptist church Granny goes to, with pale skin and blue eyes.

An old-fashioned wooden pipe sticks out the corner of his mouth, all curved with an ornate stem.

He grins at us around the lip of the pipe, and then out of the bowl blows a stream of bubbles.

Jesus never blew bubbles, at least not in my Sunday school.

“What do we have here?” he asks.

“You have a room for rent?” Fitz holds up the flyer.

Bubble man eyes the flyer, glances down at me, then returns his gaze to Fitz. He pulls the pipe from his mouth and waves it around with his free hand. “You both want it? I charge extra for double tenancy.”

“Do you have more than one room?” I ask.

“Nope. Just the one. One twin bed.” He grins at me.

Heat creeps up my face. What is he suggesting?

At this rate I will be permanently tainted red by the end of the day.

“I’ll take it,” Fitz says quickly.

I speak past my dry mouth. “No, I’ll take it.” I try to step in front of him and Fitz blocks me with one giant foot.

“Babies.” The Jesus look-alike lifts his hands. “Please. No bickering on the porch.” He steps back, opening the door further. “Why don’t y’all come in?”

I follow Fitz into the entryway and then we both follow bubble man into the living room.

After meeting Hugh Hefner in a cat-covered robe, I sort of expected the interior to be a mess. A bachelor pad. Maybe some street signs on the walls, stained carpets, and patio furniture in the living room. But it’s surprisingly homey. The couch is faded, a loveseat covered in brown roses that may have been red at one point, but otherwise in good shape. The rest of the furniture is comfortable, the wooden floors are clean, and the rugs are simple, a deep, solid red, but nice. More like my imaginary cat lady than crazy college guy. Although he’s older than your average frat boy. Maybe midtwenties. Bubbles notwithstanding.

He sits in a leather recliner and gestures for us to take a seat on the couch with his pipe. “My name’s Jude Parker. But you probably already knew that.”