Page 4

I walk out. The door closes behind me, and I stand on the sidewalk, breathing in cold fall air, trying to figure out what the hell just happened to me in there.

Today starts off perfectly. Like, suspiciously perfectly, which probably should have been my first warning.

I wake up before my alarm with sunlight doing that dreamy, golden-hour thing through my curtains, and Sunny Buns, my very opinionated cat, is already stationed at the foot of my bed, staring at my feet and ready to attack. I wiggle my toes. She pounces. We do this most mornings, and every time I act surprised, but honestly, it’s our little ritual.

After Sunny Buns destroys my toes, I give her a pat on the head. She barely allows it as she bats at my fingers. Halloween is two weeks away. I am fully in my festive era. I pull on a black skirt with tiny orange cats and layer it with an orange cardigan covered in black cats. Too many cats? Yes. Do I care? Nope.

I brush my teeth, add a coat of mascara and lip gloss, and put on my black-rimmed cat-glasses. Hair up in a high ponytail, my signature look. Sunny Buns weaves between my ankles like she aims to trip me. When I push open the café door, the lights are already on. That happens sometimes because one of the resident cats trips the motion sensor. Usually, I find them curled up on the counter. Totally normal. Not alarming at all. This is Maple Lane Falls after all. Except this morning, it’s not a cat. There is a ladder in the middle of my café. And on that ladder, or rather, near that ladder, because the man is apparently already finished with whatever he was doing, is a very tall, very handsome man in a yellow-and-black flannel shirt and a Blue Jays cap worn backward.

“Oh!” I very un-eloquently say. And then my brain catches up and goes, Oh. It’s him. And just like that, the panic dissolves into something significantly more...just more. I press my hand to my chest and smile at him. “Hi. You startled me.” I feel my rapid heartbeat under my hand.

“Why wasn’t the door locked?” Not a good morning. Not hello. Not wow, Kitty, love the cardigan. Just him, being moody and direct, like he’s been holding the question behind his teeth all morning. I glance at his clenched jaw. I sigh, looking away. I don’t answer right away. Instead, I walk behind the counter, tie on my black cat apron, reach for the cat bowls and their food container, and start filling each bowl. So much for a warm greeting. The cats hover nearby, watching me. Rydker waits, silent and still, those eyes staring down at me, making the room feel smaller.

I smile at him, or really, at the cats, since looking at Rydker feels like staring into the sun, and say, "This is Maple Lane Falls. Everyone looks out for each other." I set the bowls down. "Nothing's going to happen to me here. Besides," I add, "you're here." My smile hits my eyes.

He doesn't say anything. He just looks at me, unreadable, and every nerve in my body lights up, the embarrassment in my chest flaring hot.

A knock on the back door saves me from myself. I can still feel Rydker’s eyes on me as I cross to the back door. I glance back and catch a glimpse of him folding up the ladder, each motion precise and focused. I pause, wondering what exactly he’d been doing up there before I arrived, then tuck the question away for later and pull open the back door.

Loriann from Frosted Dreams Bakery stands on the other side, holding a crate and beaming like the human embodiment of autumn. “Loriann!” I say, and I mean it with my whole heart because Loriann always brings baked goods, and baked goods are never the wrong answer. “What did you bring me today?”

“Good morning, Kitty.” She shifts the crate in her arms. “Pumpkin muffins, mini pumpkin tarts, and, okay, don’t judge me, pumpkin chocolate Pop-Tarts, because I had a vision and I followed it.”

“I would never judge you,” I reply seriously, then giggle, reaching for the crate.

“The invoice is in the top box; pay whenever, oh!” She stops. Her eyes goes wide, landing somewhere over my left shoulder. I feel him before I hear him. Rydker leans over me, slowly, unhurried, and his hand brushes the small of my back. Just barely. Just enough.

My brain blanks every word gone, alarm bells echoing in my head. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I freeze, stunned by how undone he’s made me. Strong arms lift the crate from my hands easily. I stand there, unmoving, like a decorative gourd, completely useless because his neck is approximately four inches from my face, and he smells like cedar and something clean that I absolutely do not want to keep thinking about. I inhale, unable to help myself, and instantly regret it. When his eyes find mine, I know he’s caught me. And I know that he knows. And there is a long, terrible, wonderful second where the entire world narrows down to just that.

“Who,” Loriann asks, with a smile that could only be described as delighted, “is that?” She is looking at Rydker. Obviously. Something twists in my chest; it’s irrational, a bright streak of jealousy that burns hot before I can smother it. Which is ridiculous. Rydker isn’t mine. He’s just...here. In my café. His touch is still burning against my back. Still smelling like cedar.

Okay. Moving on.

“This is—” I start.

“Rydker. I own the hardware store down the way,” he explains it himself, and then, without another word, he turns and walks back into the café as he’s simply decided the conversation is over.

Loriann and I both stare after him. My face is burning. Hers isn’t much better. I can almost feel the flush radiating between us, thick embarrassment in the air.

"Right," Loriann responds, pressing her lips together like she’s physically containing herself. "Call me when you have a free minute. We’ll settle up." She winks, actually winks, and heads back to her truck. I watch her go, pull in a slow breath, and go to grab the milk and cream from the cooler. When I come back, Rydker is moving his ladder out of the way, the methodical energy of a man who has definitely not just short-circuited my brain.

"Can you tell me, Mister Hardware Store Owner," I begin, crossing my arms, "why and how did you get into my café before I did?" I’m scared. I’m curious. Mostly. I am also watching his arms as he carries the ladder, which is a completely separate, very inconvenient thing happening.

"You didn’t lock the door," he answers. His eyes do a slow sweep of the café, cataloguing every corner, and I have the distinct feeling that he’s filing away every unlocked window and unlatched door for future use in a lecture I am definitely going to receive. He leans the ladder against the side wall. From behind me comes a sound I’ve never heard before. In my months of knowing Mr. Ned, this is his first meow. It cracks but is soft and sounds deeply unimpressed, but a meow, nonetheless. I spin around. Mr. Ned's noise is like staring at the sun. You know it’s possible but still can’t believe it’s real.

Rydker crouches down, extending his hand out with his palm open, fingers gently curled. Mr. Ned, grumpy, impossible, never-been-touched-without-consequence Mr. Ned, saunters over, sniffs his fingers, and presses his cheek into Rydker's palm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I hold my hand over my mouth.

Mr. Ned never does that; he’s drawn blood on three separate occasions. Mr. Ned once hissed at a child who was simply existing near him. And here he is, leaning into Rydker’s hand like he’s been waiting for exactly this person.

Maybe two grumpy personalities really do cancel each other out.

My eyes go wet, stinging unexpectedly. I blink fast, jaw tight, breath shaky. I tell myself I’m fine, but my chest is thrumming with too many feelings for these cats. And then, as quickly as it started, Mr. Ned decides he’s done. One sharp, dismissive meow, like a tiny CEO ending a meeting, then he turns and ambles over to the window where Sunny Buns likes to perch, disappearing under a chair into the shadows. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. A cliché, yes, but accurate. It’s happening to me, so I’m including it. I close my eyes and try to locate my personality somewhere in the wreckage of the last twenty minutes.

What is happening to me? When I open my eyes, the ceiling is bright. Every single bulb, all the way to the back corner where the light has been flickering for weeks, all of them on. Rydker had changed them. All of them. Before I’d even arrived.

I stand there, silent and deliberately not facing Rydker, just staring into the bright light above like an idiot staring at the sun. Something inside me stretches, a sizzling ache I can’t name, rising almost painfully in my chest.