Rafe managed to deflect all monetary discussions the rest of the night. The next morning he’d got himself up, showered, dressed, fed, and caffeinated before I’d done much more than yawn and open bleary eyes, wondering why on earth I’d stayed up so late. During his important baseball conversation with Tank, I’d continued to be encumbered by cozy blanket and purring cat, so I couldn’t get up for a book, and I didn’t want to keep watching Broadchurch without Rafe. I’d switched to Arrow and hadn’t managed to tear myself away until way past bedtime.

“It was fun,” I said to Eddie, “but I could have watched it tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever I want. So why did I stay up so late?”

Eddie gave me a classic cat look, the one that said, “I have the answer to that. Not going to tell you, though, because you’re human and I can’t break the cat code,” and went back to sleep.

Then again, he could have been saying, “Hey,” and gone back to sleep.

“One of those,” I said, kissing the top of his head. “Guess I’ll never know for sure.”

“Are you out of bed?” Rafe called up the stairs.

I immediately slid out from under the covers and stood. Of course I was. Why wouldn’t I be? “Yes,” I called back.

“Okay. I’m off. See you tonight.” And he was gone.

“Well, what do you think about that?” I asked Eddie, who apparently wasn’t thinking about it at all, because his response was a quiet snore. Which, to me, meant only one thing: that I needed to go out for breakfast.

Accordingly, not much more than half an hour later, I was sliding my knees under a Round Table booth, turning over the slightly chipped white coffee mug, and waiting patiently for Sabrina.

“I’m hearing the French toast is really good today,” Sabrina said as she poured out the brain-wakening fluid.

“From whom? Cookie, because he’s trying to get rid of the bread before it goes bad?”

She glared at me. “Do you know what French people call French toast? Stale toast. It’s supposed to be that way.”

“No kidding.” The things she knew. “Sign me up. Especially if you sprinkle on some walnuts and about half a banana of banana slices.”

“Fancy-pants Minnie-style French toast.” She made a notation on her order pad. “Any meat with that? One sausage link it is. Anyone else coming, or can I put this order in?”

“Flying solo,” I said, and just as she disappeared through the kitchen door, I realized that life would be better with some hazelnut creamer to go with my coffee, but there wasn’t any on my table. I got up, perused the nearby tables, and finally found a couple next to the table where Bill D’Arcy was working.