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What the hell could go wrong?

My eyes pop open, and I roll out of bed before my alarm, already excited for the day ahead. I slip into my favorite fall skirt and twirl to watch the patches of autumn leaves fly. Their deep orange, burnt sienna, and golden yellow match the maple leaves outside my window. I grab my chunky cream knit cardigan, peek in the mirror, and nod before reaching for my black-rimmed cat-eyeglasses. Teeth brushed, lip gloss on, I bounce downstairs. A soft purr greets me before I reach the bottom step. Stepping out of my cozy apartment, I’m met by Sunny Buns, my orange fluffy cat, her fur already drifting in the air like confetti. Those bright green eyes sparkle up at me as I head to my café’s kitchen.

The early morning rush at my café is one of my favorite things. The Toe Beans & Coffee Beans Café will be bustling with cheerful clinks of mugs and happy chatter as soon as I open. Happy sunlight streams through the cracked window, making me smile. I truly cannot think of a cozier way to kick off the day. Being surrounded by little toe beans and real coffee beans is the best thing ever.

“Hey there, lady! Did you miss me?” I melt as I lean down, fingers buried in her soft orange fur as she flicks her tail playfully. She chirps, lighting up my face; I can’t help but smile at her fluffiness. Her kneading paws and figure-eight weaving make my morning. Her fur tickles my ankles like a purring welcome mat. I’m careful on the steep wooden stairs; if I trip over her, we’re both going down. Nose high, she meows the whole way, trotting behind me like royalty. Customers are smitten, and kids line up with treats. Someone is always playing or giving her a chin scratch.

“I know, I know, Sunny Buns! Just give me one teensy second!” I laugh, responding to her persistent meows. She keeps up her chatter, stretching up and pawing at the café’s back door like she means to open it herself. I step forward, grasp the handle, and push the door open. Together, we step inside. Instantly, the café lights flicker on automatically, making it feel as though the whole place is waking up to greet us. This café has been my dream since I left Seattle. Living here, in Maple Lane Falls, at the best time of year, it feels almost unreal.

The maple leaves put on a breathtaking show on the hills around town, there’s a cozy chill, and maple buckets drip with sap for the harvest. Honestly, this is exactly where I want to be. “Good morning, my friends!” I cheer, arms open to the cats. I have five adoptable cats living their best lives in the café. Having cats on tables technically breaks health codes, but the city helped me find a solution. They asked for a walled-off area for the cats, separate from food and seating. I follow every rule, but the fun secret is the cats don’t always stay in that room.

I do a quick headcount, hands on hips, looking very official, and survey my five residents. “Okay, who’s hungry?” The response is underwhelming. A few ears twitch. One cat lays on the cat bed, opens their eyes, and then slowly closes them again. Most remain completely boneless in the cat tree, unimpressed by my enthusiasm. I look down at Sunny Buns. She is circling my feet with the focused intensity of someone who has not eaten in three weeks. (She ate last night.) “Well,” I tell her, “it looks like it’s just us. More for you, I guess.” She meows like she’s been waiting her whole life to hear those words.

As the food bowls clink against the hardwood, five cats appear instantly; one tabby cat and a litter of sleek black kittens crowd Sunny Buns’ bowl. Their eyes fixate on their breakfast, forgetting their earlier nap act. I laugh, then make sure every cat gets a bowl of their own. Then I pivot to the back door where my bakery delivery is waiting. The sweet smell of muffins and rolls is already filling the air. I quickly stack the boxes, swing open the door, and grab the milk crates left by the back door from Oberweis Farms.

When I finish, I practically skip over to flip my "Open" sign; it's my favorite chore of the day. I pull the front door wide, and a crisp, cool breeze sweeps in like it’s been waiting for its invitation. I set out the sandwich board sign, already updated with today’s lunch special and my most yummy seasonal lattes. I brush my hands together and plant them on my hips with the biggest, most satisfied smile. Beloved morning regulars stream in as I hold the door open. They all greet me, nodding and smiling as they take their usual spots in line, ready for their coffees.

“Good morning, Greg! Oh, it’s so good to see you!” I grin, giving his arm a little squeeze as he removes his newsboy hat, those baby blues of his crinkling up into the sweetest smile. “I’ll get your drip coffee going right away. Which baked good did you want with your coffee today?”

“Morn', Miss Kitty,” he says like he’s in no rush, like always. “One of those pumpkin muffins, if you don’t mind.”

I beam at him. “Oh, you’re going to love this batch. I had the most wonderful delivery this morning, and they’re still warm.”

“Sounds just perfect, Miss Kitty.” He glances around the café and shuffles toward his usual table. One of the smaller black cats immediately falls into step behind him, like a tiny shadow with opinions and murder mittens.

Across the café, a group of college students has claimed the corner booth. One of them hunches over a laptop, looking like he has an existential crisis looming. He doesn't even look up. Right up until my little calico hops onto the table and plants herself on his keyboard. He startles. The calico doesn’t move. The other students around him dissolve into a chorus of "oh my gosh" and reach out to give the cat chin scratches.

I step up to Greg with his muffin and coffee. “You know, seeing your smile every single morning is honestly one of my very favorite things,” I state, feeling it all the way to my toes.

“Thanks, Miss Kitty. Think I'll stay for a second cup. Company's too good to rush.” Greg settles back in his chair. That man is one of my favorite customers. It's just him now. His wife lost her battle to cancer last fall, and I still catch myself glancing at the empty chair beside him sometimes. Part of me is still expecting to see her there with her crossword puzzle and her decaf coffee. But if I can get Greg to smile, really smile, the kind that reaches those baby blues, then I'm calling it a win.

“Absolutely. Fresh cup, coming right up,” I reply as I head back toward the counter, grinning to myself. A little while later, the café had fully settled into its morning rhythm. Regulars deep in conversation, cats distributed across various laps like they've been assigned there. Everything feels exactly right. Except for Mr. Ned. He’s my newest resident, and Mr. Ned is not okay. His owner passed away just a week ago, and Sherry, Maple Falls Lane’s local vet and one of my favorite humans, called me because the situation was heartbreaking: the owner had wanted Mr. Ned euthanized and cremated alongside his owner. The family couldn't go through with it. I said yes before she even finished the sentence.

Mr. Ned is, bless him, gloriously chunky, his back all gray, while his huge belly is pure white. His round eyes are outlined like an emo gone wild with their eyeliner. He’s moody right now, not ready for adoption yet. That’s why he wears a bright red collar. My cafe’s universal “please give me space” sign for customers. It’s just a precaution as Mr. Ned adjusts, but I’m confident he’ll make the transition soon.

When Greg finishes his second cup and waves farewell, I start tidying up a few of the vacant tables, feeling satisfied to have the free time to do so. Just as I am about to take a breath and enjoy the moment, the front doorbell chimes, announcing the entrance of a new customer. My attention is focused on the ceramic mugs I’m collecting off the table when I call out, "Welcome to Kitty's Cafe! I'll just be a second."

I tuck the last mug under my arm and scoop up the dirty napkins, stuffing them into the mugs. Turning, I spot a tall man in a blue flannel shirt and a Blue Jays baseball cap. The white shirt hugs his broad chest, stretching just right. His worn cargo pants and rugged army boots complete a model-like confidence. I freeze in place, staring. As my hand slips, a mug topples from my grip.

"Oh!" I exclaim, reaching out to catch it while trying to balance the rest of the dirty dishes. I wiggle my body, trying to stop the mug with my hips or my foot, looking like one of those air-tube people at car lots. The man lurches forward smoothly, closing the gap in one stride. A very muscular arm shoots out and catches the mug just a foot from the floor. He’s bent over, that flannel stretches over his muscular back and catches my eye. When he looks up at me, his deep brown eyes are rich and inviting, like the fresh coffee I serve. I can’t help but say, "Whoa," my stomach flipping, captivated by this human being I’m completely staring at.

Where has this beautiful man come from?

Blue.

That’s all I see at first. Vivid, startling blue hits me before anything else. I don’t want to look away. Can’t. My hand presses to my chest because something inside me starts up. Everything else goes quiet, fading out, as that blue lingers in my mind.

She’s holding a stack of dirty dishes. Wearing black-rimmed cat-eyeglasses, a fall-themed skirt, and with a little half-apron at her waist. She looks like she belongs to a different era. I can’t decide if this is part of the festival or just her.

This is something though…love? I don’t believe in love at first sight. I’ve never had a reason to. I’m still not sure I do, even as I stand rooted here. But I haven’t even heard her voice yet.

She hadn’t noticed me walking in, too busy clearing off the tables. I’d watched as she flittered around the tables, and then the top mug on her stack tilted. She’d made a grab for it, which only threatened the rest of what she was holding. I’d moved without a thought, stepping closer, dropping low, and caught the mug an inch off the floor in my hand.

Then I’d looked up.

She’s staring down at me, those vivid blue eyes wide behind her glasses. Beautiful full lips part, caught completely off guard. And then she speaks, her first words, and I feel it in my bones.

“Whoa.” One word. That’s what she gave me. I stand up slowly, and for reasons I can’t explain, I think about our story and what it will sound like to someone who matters.