Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

The Sunshine Cat's Choice
The Sunshine Cat's Choice
The Sunshine Cat's Choice
Ebook258 pages3 hours

The Sunshine Cat's Choice

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

A.J. Scaramucci’s life has always been shaken, not stirred.

Pretty typical for a spunky gal from Staten Island who runs her family’s delicatessen and is not shy about saying what she thinks. When a new business across the street brings two men into her life, she’s presented with a choice.

But when a major red flag is revealed, the decision seems totally out of her hands.

And for a woman who always takes what she wants, it’s a new experience.

Turns out her equally spunky cat Gypsy has more input than she does.

The pet she calls “my sunshine” will have to work a little feline magic for a happy ending.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherNic Tatano
Release dateSep 14, 2017
ISBN9781386999133
The Sunshine Cat's Choice
Author

Nic Tatano

I've always been a writer of some sort, having spent my career working as a reporter, anchor or producer in television news. Fiction is a lot more fun, since you don't have to deal with those pesky things known as facts. I grew up in the New York City metropolitan area and now live on the Gulf Coast where I will never shovel snow again. I'm happily married to a math teacher and we share our wonderful home with our tortoiseshell tabby cat, Gypsy.

Read more from Nic Tatano

Related to The Sunshine Cat's Choice

Related ebooks

Romantic Comedy For You

View More

Related articles

Reviews for The Sunshine Cat's Choice

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    The Sunshine Cat's Choice - Nic Tatano

    For Gypsy:

    You were a wonderful cat and are greatly missed.

    You were my sunshine.

    See you at the Rainbow Bridge someday.

    CHAPTER ONE

    I HEAR THE HORN HONK through the sound of the torrential rain pounding the roof.

    A quick look out the window shows my Friday night date parked in front. Oh, you gotta be friggin’ kidding me.

    Lemme get this straight... a man asks a woman out for dinner, it’s raining like the day Noah left the dock in the ark, and he’s not gonna come to the door with an umbrella to escort me to his car? Is this the current male idea of making a good first impression? Are gentlemen now extinct?

    Well, I aint movin’. I’ll give him a minute to come to his senses.

    Honk! Honnnnkkkk!

    So much for that.

    What started as a polite beep is now a typical New York wake the hell up and move your ass because the light turned green continuous lean on the horn.

    Another look outside and nothing has changed. My jaw clenches as my eyes narrow, shooting my Sicilian death stare through the window currently being pelted with rain. I see him looking up at my apartment through the window and realize he aint coming to get me.

    And since I aint movin’ either it’s basically a case of the irresistible force versus the immovable object.

    In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m the immovable object in this equation. Basically that’s true of any situation.

    Ring!

    Nope, not the doorbell.

    I grab my cell with a pretty good idea who’s calling. Yeah?

    Yo, A.J., it’s Jerry. I’m parked out front.

    Huh? Parked out front of what?

    Where do you think? I’m in front of your apartment. So, you ready, or what?

    Yeah, I got ready right here. You said six-thirty, so I’m ready. I’ll buzz you in.

    Well, let’s go. I’m hungry.

    Oh, you wanted me to come out?

    Duh. That’s why I beeped the horn.

    Sorry, I was expecting you to come to the door. Didn’t realize that was you honking. Be right there.

    I quickly take off my dress and heels, throw on ratty torn jeans, a paint covered sweatshirt and old sneakers, grab an umbrella and head down the stairs to the door, muttering under my breath. Oh, buddy, you are so dead because I have just about had it with this kind of guy. I open the door, pop the umbrella and plod through the lake that has formed between me and his car.

    Do I expect him to get out of his vehicle and open the door for me?

    Sure. Like Hillary expects Bill to be honest with her about what he does while she’s out of town.

    I reach his car as I step off the curb into ankle deep water and yank the door open, finding the tall, dark-haired hunk in a pair of jeans and a pale blue polo shirt. His lean, rugged face immediately tightens as he takes in my outfit. I thought you said you were ready.

    Yeah. I am.

    It’s a nice restaurant. You’re dressed like you’re going to mow the lawn.

    "You’re in jeans, what’s the difference?

    Yeah, but yours look like you lost a battle with a weed whacker. We got time, go put on something nice. And a top that aint covered in paint.

    Sorry, this is how I dress when I have to walk through a monsoon.

    He rolls his dark eyes. I can’t help it if it’s raining.

    The weather has nothing to do with it. So let me get this straight... you pick up a woman for a date and you don’t come to the door to get her?

    As you already mentioned, it’s pouring.

    Awww, you didn’t wanna get wet. So let the lady turn into a drowned rat as long as you stay dry.

    He notices the rain is dripping into his car at a steady rate. Well, whatever. C’mon, you’re letting the rain in. I guess we can go to a casual place without a dress code.

    Oh, you wanna play? Fine. Let’s rock. Nah, not in the mood for casual. I scratch my chin and look up as if deep in thought. "Now, what do I want for dinner?" A gust of wind sends a ton of rain onto the passenger seat. I dip my umbrella toward the car to add a little extra.

    For God’s sake, get in and close the door!

    Keep your shirt on, buddy, I’m re-thinking my meal plan for this evening since, as you implied, I’m not exactly dressed for a nice restaurant. Oh, wait a minute. Hey, how about that new joint down by the shore with the outdoor tables where you can throw peanut shells on the floor? I heard it’s got a great view.

    You want to eat outside? Are you out of your mind?

    I’m already soaked to the bone, so what’s the difference? I start to laugh. And we probably don’t need a reservation tonight. I steal a quick glance at the floorboard of his car, which now features about a half inch of water. You know what I’m in the mood for?

    Dammit, A.J., will you get in the car?

    Nah, I’m thinkin’ it’s nasty weather and I’d rather just stay at home.

    Huh? You want to order in?

    Yeah, but not with you.

    What do you mean?

    I’d rather eat dinner alone.

    You don’t wanna do anything with me?

    "That’s generally what alone means."

    Seriously? You’re canceling our date because I beeped the horn and didn’t come to the door to get you? What is this, nineteen fifty?

    I wish it were, so why don’t you get in a time machine and find out how a real gentleman treats a lady. I point at the floorboard. And you might wanna hit that with a shop-vac and a hair dryer when you get home or the carpet will get all moldy. I turn and head back.

    Leaving the car door open.

    Hey! You could have at least shut the door!

    Get lawst, buddy! I flip the bird with a flourish as I walk back to my apartment.

    Wearing a wicked grin.

    HOW WOULD I DESCRIBE myself? I’m like the Sicilian version of the Jennifer Grey character in Dirty Dancing.

    Nobody puts A.J. Scaramucci in a corner.

    Or doesn’t pick her up for a date at the front door.

    At least, not anymore.

    (Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to get into third-person mode.)

    Anyway, since my now waterlogged dinner date went down the drain, which is appropriate considering the weather, I’m busy making a pastrami sandwich in the delicatessen my family owns that sits below my apartment.

    Which means I’ll never run out of food. (Location, location, location.)

    Scaramucci’s Deli is the practically a landmark in this Staten Island neighborhood, started by my grandparents when they came over on the boat from Sicily and the only thing they knew how to do was cook. It’s classic old school, complete with provolones hanging from the ceiling, garlic air you can taste and recipes that go back to the old country. I run it with my brother and sister, and since I’m the oldest at thirty-six I had dibs on the fantastic apartment above the place. It’s a small two bedroom, but very comfortable for one person. How my grandparents raised five kids here back in the day boggles the mind.

    Before we go any further, I know you’re wondering about the Sicilian thing, and if my family is in the Mob. (Hey, I’m not offended, it happens all the time.)

    Put it this way... what people don’t know gives me an advantage. So maybe I know where to get stuff that’s fallen off a truck, maybe not. As for the men I date who treat me badly, maybe I know guys who can make other guys take a dirt nap. Maybe not.

    As for me... single, never married, no kids. (At least none that I know of.) As my family likes to say, I’m right out of goomba central casting, with the straight jet-black hair that dusts my shoulders, very dark eyes and, in case you hadn’t guessed, a Noo Yawk accent sharp enough to slice a stale bagel. Only five-two and a buck-ten, but I’m solid muscle and a spunky little thing who doesn’t take shit from anyone.

    Especially men who treat me badly.

    At least, not anymore.

    I finish making my sandwich, grab a bag of chips and a Doctor Brown’s cream soda, and head back to my apartment.

    And then I hear the noise upstairs.

    I SLOWLY OPEN THE DOOR and tiptoe into my apartment. Heart rate up. Shoulders tensed.

    Nothing seems out of place.

    I gently place my dinner on the kitchen counter and quietly head into the living room.

    Still nothing. All is quiet.

    But I know something’s coming.

    Just as I turn to head down the hall I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

    I turn just in time as the flying ball of gray fur sails past my head.

    I exhale and look down at the floor. Dammit, Gypsy, you got me again. You scare the hell out of me every time. I pick up the young Russian Blue cat that plays this little stealth attack game with me every single day. This time she apparently hid on top of the china cabinet before doing her kamikaze thing. Game over, the cat purrs and gives me a lick as I scratch her under the chin. And I know damn well the little sneak knows she beat me again.

    But I love Gypsy to death and after having her a little over a year I couldn’t imagine life without her.

    She’s my sunshine.

    No matter how bad a day I’ve had, she always brightens my spirits.

    She turns her head toward the kitchen, puts her nose in the air and starts sniffing in that direction.

    Yeah, I got pastrami, but that’s not good for you. You can’t have salt. I got your favorite treats, though. I put her down and she follows me into the kitchen, and then waits patiently by her dish. I shake a few treats out of the bag and she eagerly gobbles them up. You’re a much better dinner companion that the one I just tossed, kitty. And you’re always here for me.

    It hits me.

    Gypsy is always here for me.

    As reliable as the sun coming up every morning.

    I look at the clock as I take a bite of my sandwich. It’s only six-thirty.

    What the hell.

    The night is young.

    And I need help.

    MY FRIENDS MADISON, Tish and Rory look up from their wine glasses, obviously not expecting me to join them in our usual watering hole. Rory studies my face as I take a seat. I thought you had a date.

    I nod. I did.

    Madison leans toward me. You get stood up?

    Does any guy have the balls to stand me up?

    Sorry, stupid question.

    I’ve just had enough of men who don’t treat me like a lady. This one shows up when it was pouring rain a couple hours ago, beeps the horn, doesn’t even come to the door to get me... My eyes narrow as my face tightens.

    Tish laughs a bit. Since when does something like that bother you?

    Since a few hours ago. A waiter comes over and I start to order a beer, but switch to wine. As soon as he leaves I continue venting. I’m tired of the guys with Roman hands and Russian fingers, tired of the cheap dates, tired of being taken for granted. No man ever holds the door for me, I never get flowers or candy, there’s no romance at all. And when I talk no one’s listening to me. All I get is that  husband-tuning-out-the-wife bobblehead. Uh-huh, yes dear, that’s nice. I try to exhale my tension and look at my two friends who recently found terrific guys to marry. Look at you two. Madison, you’ve got a man who treats you like a queen. Tish, your fiancé is an absolute gem. I want a guy like that. And ever since you gave me that cat, Madison... well, tonight it hit me.

    What?

    "Gypsy is always there for me. She waits for me to come home, gives me unconditional love, is always happy to see me. She seems to know when I’m down and brings me back up. I mean, how can you stay mad or depressed when a cat jumps on your lap and purrs? We play games together and entertain each other. You know how I always say she’s my sunshine? I need a guy like that. I need someone with cat values. "

    Madison scrunches her face. Cat values? Is that a real thing?

    It is now. But you know what I mean. Look, Madison, think about your fiancé and what he does for you. He’s always there for you, happy to see you, cheers you up when you’re feeling sad, you guys entertain each other... how is that different from a great cat?

    Never thought of it that way, but you’ve got a point.

    So I want a man with cat values. My drink arrives and I take a big sip. "Meanwhile, I am sick and tired of thinking my eyes are up here every damn time I meet a guy."

    Everyone slowly nods. The table goes silent for a minute as my three friends look at one another. Apparently they know something I don’t.

    Whaaaat?

    Rory turns to me. Well, as far as the latter part goes... regarding men not knowing the location of your eyes... I hate to say this...

    C’mon, spit it out.

    Fine. Your wardrobe doesn’t exactly encourage men to look at your eyes. I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but... she stops, apparently wondering if she’ll hurt my feelings.

    Nothing’s off the table, Rory. I need help. Be honest. I won’t be upset with you.

    Well, if the gloves are off, here goes. Look, A.J., you’ve got the body of a twenty year old. But everything you wear is lacquered on. Sprayed-on jeans, tight tops that could put someone’s eye out if a button gives way. Where do you expect men to look?

    There’s no mystery, adds Tish, the curvy blonde lawyer who dresses as conservatively as possible even though I personally think she’s classically beautiful. (Imagine Grace Kelly all buttoned up wearing no makeup and horn-rimmed glasses with Coke bottle lenses.) I’m not saying you need a wardrobe like mine, but you don’t need to dress... what’s the word?

    I know where she’s going. Cheap?

    You said it, I didn’t.

    Well, I’m not naturally beautiful. An average girl needs a little help.

    You’re anything but average. A.J., you’ve got a beautiful face, those big eyes, high cheekbones, cute dimples when you smile. Hell, you don’t even need makeup. Men would notice you if you wore a burlap sack.

    Madison, the tall, redheaded television reporter, nods in approval. Remember what happened to me when I went on TV with the kittens wearing a sweatshirt and no makeup? I got tons of emails from men, more than I ever got when I had lacquered hair and looked plastic. And the network finally stopped trying to turn me into a fashion model. I didn’t have to cover up my freckles anymore.

    Rory takes a closer look. A.J., you’re not wearing makeup now, right?

    No. I took it all off because I didn’t want men bothering me tonight.

    "See, that’s your problem. You think you need that stuff to attract men when you don’t need a damn thing."

    The waiter returns with a drink and slides it in front of me. From the gentleman at the end of the bar.

    Tish quickly turns into the lawyer. And on that note, the defense rests. See, you don’t need anything for men to notice you. You’re sitting there in a sweatshirt with no makeup and within five minutes a guy hit on you.

    Maybe they’re right. Out of habit I start to check out the man at the bar who sent the drink, but then stop.

    I don’t want to get picked up like this anymore.

    Rory’s eyes grow wide. Oh my God, she’s not even interested in who sent the drink. She really has gone over the edge. She turns and takes a glance at the bar, then looks back at me. He’s your type.

    Not anymore. I don’t even have to look. You take him.

    Damn.

    Back to my friends. So, what do I do? Can you guys fix me?

    Rory, the brunette advertising copywriter who has that girl-next-door thing going and is never short of dates, gets a twinkle in her eye. I think we start by giving your closet a makeover.

    You wanna remodel my closet?

    No. What’s in it.

    CHAPTER TWO

    I’M SORTA APPREHENSIVE today because after work the girls are coming over to rummage through my wardrobe and toss all the cheap stuff. I thought about making a list of what might qualify as cheap, but it was easier to write down what didn’t.

    It filled up an entire post-it note.

    Damn, we’d better go shopping afterward or I’ll have an empty closet.

    I can only imagine what they’ll make me buy. It will be the fashion version of being forced to eat Lima beans.

    Anyway,

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1