The Lost Cats and Lonely Hearts Club: A heartwarming, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy - not just for cat lovers!

I playfully put out my lower lip in a pout. “Yes, Officer. I promise to be a good girl. You won’t have to pull me over again.” Though I wouldn’t mind.

He reaches into his pocket and hands me a card. “Here’s my card if you ever need anything.”

“Such as?”

He shrugs. “You know. Ne’er-do-wells harassing you. Jars you can’t open. Cat up a tree.”

“I thought that last thing was the fire department’s jurisdiction.”

“Normally it is, but I’m a cat whisperer. I can talk one down if necessary.”

“Good to know. And now that you mention it, I do often have a problem with opening jars.”

“I’m a Jedi Master at that. Seriously, it’s a really nice thing you’re doing for those kittens.”

“Thanks. At first I thought it would be a burden, but now I really miss the little guys when I’m at work. Hence the lead foot.”

“Well, I know they appreciate the care you’re giving them. Cats are very perceptive creatures. They can sense when someone has a good heart. Anyway, gotta go and thanks for the soda.”

“Thanks for cutting me a break, Officer.”

“Nick.”

“Right. Nick.”

“Well, have a good night.”

“Be careful out there.”

He gives me an old fashioned tip of the hat, then heads out the door. I watch him get into his patrol car, see him shoot me a little smile before he drives away.

Rory is right.

Very cute cop.

And a cat person.

The phone rings the second I close the front door. Rory. Who was no doubt spying on me from her house again. I pull back the drapes and see my best friend through the window as I answer the call. “What?”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Extremely hot cop alert. You could get your own personal Magic Mike sequel going with that one. I detected some definite chemistry.”

“Your radar is spot on. He gave me his card and told me to call if I needed anything. Like someone to open jars. Real cute.”

“Ah, he’s interested.”

“So why didn’t he ask me out?”

“He couldn’t. Yet.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He just let you out of a ticket and it would look like he traded a date with you for that. Either that or he probably figured a girl on national television already has someone.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“But trust me, he will. I saw that look he had.”

“He doesn’t have my phone number.”

“He knows where you live, sweetie. And he’s a cop, he could easily look it up.”

“True.”

“And you have his number. If I were you, I’d start lining up those jars you can’t open.”

I’ve just about made it through my first week at work but I’ve been doing something I’ve never done during my entire career.

Watching the clock.

Generally reporters don’t have time to do that since our days are so busy, but now I look forward to getting home and seeing my furry friends.

It’s four-thirty and thankfully I don’t have a live shot tonight so I’ll be home at a decent hour unless some breaking news keeps me here. Politicians are famous for their Friday afternoon document dumps, so I’m hoping that isn’t the case today. Besides, I’m clandestinely working on finding the smoking gun on a United States Senator who the CEO refers to as “Madison’s white whale.” I keep my research under the radar since I have been told in no uncertain terms to back off. I’ve always wondered if the Senator has photos of the CEO naked with a goat because everyone in the news business knows the guy is the poster child for dirty politicians. But I’m handcuffed since corporate won’t let me expend the time or newsroom resources digging up dirt on the guy. The other reason is that countless reporters have tried to go full Ahab on the guy over the years and come up empty. The Senator is really smart and has the unlimited resources to cover his tracks.

Or make them go away. Which is the scary part.

When I see my boss heading in my direction, I quickly shove my notes in a drawer and smile at him.

Barry Post, my short, bald forty year old News Director, arrives at my desk and leans his bulky frame on the edge. “Your story in the can already?”

Dammit, a document dump. He needs a reporter to go out on something. “Yeah. Why?”

He’s wearing a bit of a smile. “Need to run something by you in my office.” He cocks his head in that direction and gets up, so I follow him. Barry closes the door behind me as I take a seat in front of his desk. “I just got some bad news.”

“What, you sick or something?”

“No, I’m fine. It’s Fred.”

Our senior political reporter who covers the President’s re-election campaign. “What happened?”

“He fell down the stairs getting off Air Force One and broke his ankle. Compound fracture. You know, the kind where the bone sticks through—”

“Yeah, I get it. Ugh.” My face tightens as I try not to picture the accident. “Poor guy.”

“Anyway, he’ll be laid up for several months, and I need someone to fill in for him. Madison, I know this has always been your dream assignment.”