Instead, at the end of each day, I walked home, enjoying the crisp evening air and the knowledge that I had an entire evening ahead of me that was mine all mine and I wasn’t about to let Carson West take that away from me. As I walked home on Thursday night, I debated the possibilities. An online yoga class? Or I could sprawl in the chair by the fireplace and read a mystery or maybe another rom-com. I supposed I should be more productive and go to the art supply store and buy some paint and canvases. I wanted to do all these things all at the same time. Dilemma. But first dinner.

I dropped my bag as soon as I entered my house. I poured myself a glass of wine and considered the contents of my refrigerator and pantry. It looked like tonight was a fettuccine Alfredo night. This is my fallback single gal meal. All I needed to make the sauce was butter, heavy cream, a crushed garlic clove, and a cup and a half of shredded parmesan. These were ingredients that I made certain to always have on hand.

As had become my habit, I opened one of the French doors to the yard while I started cooking to allow some fresh air into the house. My fettuccine was boiling and my sauce was thickening when who should saunter in through the door as if he owned the joint? My new sleepover pal who’d been showing up every night right around suppertime. Little sir sat in the doorway, licking his chest as if making himself presentable for dinner.

“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.”