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shade of bluish-gray.
    Kneeling, I rub its head. “Lost, little one?” I’ve always had an affinity for animals, from the time I was a child. A weakness my father said I inherited from my mother’s family. Animals were meant to serve us, to do our bidding, not perform tricks.
    I scoop up the purring cat, heading in the direction of the local shelter. Everly won’t be here for at least thirty more minutes, so I have time to get this bit of fluff there.
    “Ridding the world of mice, eh?” I croon as the familiar brick building comes into sight. The door opens, and an older woman with black hair liberally streaked with gray comes out. Mrs. Tatum is the director of the rescue shelter. Bangles on her wrists jingle as they crash against one another.
    When she sees me, she smiles—her expression genuine and warm, much like Everly’s.
    “Mr. Smith, how are you today?” Her gaze zeroes in on the bundle in my arms and the smile melts away, leaving behind a frown so sad that grooves appear in the side of her mouth. “Ah, I wish you hadn’t brought it.”
    I glance down at the cat. Yellow eyes regard me thoughtfully. “She can’t eat that much. I’m more than happy to donate food—”
    “That’s not it.” She lets out a thick sigh. “We can’t take any more animals for at least a week. If they are left here, then we have to euthanize them.”
    “I’ll take her home with me,” I immediately say, uncaring that even something as small as a cat can complicate my life.
    “I’ll stop by later with some supplies for you,” Mrs. Tatum says.
    Without further ado, I hurry back to my shop and await Everly’s return.
    *
    Naturally, Everly loves my cat. Naturally, the cat hates Everly and hisses as soon as the woman attempts to hold her.
    “Perhaps I should put her in the back?” I whisk the cat away, placing her in a nearly empty storeroom. There’s some cat food in a bowl, a small dish of water, a litter box, and a blanket—all courtesy of Mrs. Tatum. But the damned cat bolts out of the room before I can shut the door and disappears into my shop.
    When I return, Everly is digging through her box. She stops when she sees me. “Does it bother you?”
    “That the cat doesn’t like you? Not particularly.”
    Everly tilts her head to one side. “The cat will come around, but I was speaking about the robbery.” Her gaze flicks to my shoulder and lower still to my thigh, as if she can still see the bullet holes. “I don’t know if I could ever come back here if it had happened to me.”
    “Yet, here you are,” I say dryly, and she blushes a little.
    She hefts the box and takes it to her usual spot, sitting down and curling her legs up beside her. “I won’t have an order for next week.”
    A sort of panic sets in, my heart beating in staccato at the thought of her not making her weekly visit. Though we haven’t made much progress—okay, I haven’t made much progress—in our conversations, I can’t help but wonder how lonely my store would be without her in it. Actually, I do know. Six days a week, I know how it feels. It’s fucking miserable.
    I’m fucking miserable.
    “Why is that?”
    “Out-of-town guest.”
    Male or female? It hadn’t occurred to me that Everly could be in a relationship with anyone, because every Wednesday at precisely four o’clock, Everly Andrews is mine.
    The bell on the door rings and once again, Everly’s eyes widen, but this time, it’s in pure terror. “Roman…someone’s here. Maybe you should call the cops,” she says, her voice shaky. Reaching into her purse, she pulls out pepper spray and a cell phone. “Here.”
    Pepper spray versus a gun? Jesus.
    Quickly, I check the monitor, taking note of the face before striding to her.
    Carefully, I kneel beside the chair. Her scent washes over me, lightly floral and completely feminine. “You are perfectly safe. We’re perfectly safe. The man who just walked in is an old friend of mine.” Actually, he is more than a