Page 9 of Kitty Cafe & The Grump

"Trees are fixed. Scooped all the litter boxes, too." He reaches down to scratch Mr. Ned’s nose, and when he leans in, his shirt rides up just enough to give me a very unobstructed view of his very toned abs. My eyes go wide. I am not subtle about it. Rydker catches me immediately and smirks like he’s been waiting for exactly that reaction. Bastard. He leans down, lips close to my ear. Bags of scooped litter in one hand, tools in the other, and he still manages to step right into my bubble. "If you’re a good girl and let me take you to the Fall Festival tonight, I’ll let you see more of this." His breath hits me against my skin, and every single nerve in my body lights up at once. He’s smiling when he pulls back. Fully aware of exactly what he’s just done to me.

"Ye—yes," I manage.

“Good girl.” He leans down and kisses me, and I make the mistake of keeping my eyes open long enough to catch his. And I melt. That’s it. That’s all it takes. Him calling me a ‘good girl,’ and his kiss that moves through me like a current. The visual of what’s under his shirt, the stubble along his jaw, the way he looks at me like I am the only thing in the room. Utterly devastating. The man is just so damn sexy, and he absolutely knows it. He’s only been mine for the last twelve hours, but I’ve made my choice too. And somehow, October feels a little less impossible, quite possibly doable. "I'll go change, and then we can head out," he says, stepping around me toward the back of the kitchen before slipping out the back door with the poop bags in his hands.

My fingers wrap around my fuzzy orange sweater with the little autumn leaves on it, when a firm knock comes from my door. I push my glasses up, swipe my hands on my black cat skirt, and open the door. Rydker stands there, his gorgeous hair slightly tousled, a slow smile on his lips. He reaches up to grip the doorframe with one hand and uses the other to pull me closer until there is nothing between us.

"If I weren’t a gentleman, I’d push you right back inside," he tells me, and his eyes make a slow sweep that leaves me feeling his heat from head to toe. He pauses just long enough to let me imagine it before he kisses me, deeply, every emotion right there on his lips, passing them to mine, along with a thickness in his pants. "I’ll take you to the Fall Festival first." He steps back, saying this as if he is trying to convince himself, then laces his fingers through mine. "But I’m making good on that promise later tonight." I nearly forget how to stand upright as his voice drops to a sexy growl.

"I—I’d like that." I fumble with my words, and honestly, I surprise myself a little with how upfront I am.

The fall breeze has turned sharp, the kind that slices through your jacket and never apologizes. But Kitty’s hand is in mine, and that sharpness peels away. With her, I can turn down the volume on everything that screams inside since I’ve been back from the Middle East. The nightmares stay down. The noise stays quiet. I haven’t felt like this in years—maybe ever. I don’t want the day to end. That simple truth is terrifying. I even text Todd about it. Because that’s how far gone I am. He sends back a thumbs-up and a GIF of a man clutching his chest.

Jerk.

“Caramel apple, Miss Kitty?” A little girl with pigtails runs around her cart and pushes one forward like she is handing over the crown jewels. The whole square smells of cinnamon and woodsmoke, with the fall colors in the trees glittering with twinkling lights and the pumpkins lining the walkways.

“Want to share one?” she asks, those blue eye pinning me down. I’ll share anything she asks. That’s the problem. The willingness comes so easily with her. I hand the cash to the girl’s mother without a word, and the little girl beams as if she’s just closed the deal of the century.

“My mommy will cut them for you!” the girl chimes excitedly. The girl’s mother hands us the cut slices, and Kitty bites into a slice and makes a sound that has no business being made in public. She offers me one. I take it. It tastes sweet, sticky, and of fall. But what I actually want is to lick the caramel off her thumb myself. To press her against the nearest wall and find out what she tastes like under all that sweetness. I’m already hard. I have been for the better part of an hour. The anticipation sends a low, constant hum of eagerness and excitement through my body. This woman is going to destroy me. The realization knocks the wind out of me. Desire tangles with something more than need, and I let both settle in my bones. Later. I'll have her later. For now, I walk.

Her hand in mine, our shoulders bump when the crowd presses in close. I don't mind the crowd. Maple Lane Falls has gone all out for this festival. Fake spiderwebs stretch between the maples, the string lights turn into a fairy tale story. Hay bales are clustered with orange and purple mums. The Girl Scouts work their booth like seasoned saleswomen, pumpkin bread and caramel apples lined up in rows. Boy Scouts nearby are taking yard work orders for mulch deliveries for the coming springtime. This town shows up for itself. Every year, without fail. It’s one of the reasons I’ve stayed after getting out of the army. I need somewhere that still believes in something.

Booths line the square: crocheted blankets, hand-turned wooden bowls, jars of jam, and golden jars of local honey. The grocer has a whole mountain of pumpkins out front, and beside his tent, kids are elbow-deep in pumpkin guts at the carving station. A volunteer is scooping seeds into a bowl while a mom next to her roasts a batch with cinnamon sugar, handing out samples on tiny napkins.

I take one. It’s stupid good. This is why I returned. Not home-home, here. This town. The sort of place that still roasts pumpkin seeds and hands them to strangers.

“Rydker! Hi! I’m selling wrapping paper. Want to buy some?” Rusty materializes out of the crowd, arms full of holiday rolls, some of them already crinkled at the edges, one with a corner torn off. He holds them out like an offering. “Do you want some?” he asks again, louder.

Rusty is twelve. Smart as hell and wired differently. I met him at my hardware store months ago, standing in front of the nuts-and-bolts display like he was deciphering a foreign language he was determined to crack. His mom had been two aisles over, giving him space while she was looking at furnace filters. All he’d needed was someone to ask about what he was looking at. So, I did. We’d talked for forty-five minutes. His mom told me afterward, he had no dad around to talk about tools with. The boy had waited for someone to talk to him. I’d asked my store manager to save the kid's number. So did half the town. I would call his mom if Rusty ever showed up at the store alone. The town looked after him, trying to give his mom some peace. Most kids his age didn’t get him. Their loss.

“Hello, Rusty!” Kitty greets as she bends down to his eye level. “I haven’t seen you around lately. Would you like to come by and pet the new residents? They could use some socialization, and maybe they want to learn about your new dinosaur facts. Think you can do that next week?”

“Yes!” He’s already gone before the word finishes leaving his mouth.

Kitty laughs. I snort, then tug her closer, her shoulder fitting against my body where it belongs. “How often does Rusty come to the café?”

I tip my head to look at her snuggling into me when she responds, “Usually once or twice a week. The cats really like him. They crawl into his lap while he talks about dinosaurs.” She smiles at the sidewalk. “They don’t care that he’s different. They just purr.” A moment passes. “His mom sneaks in sometimes. Sits in the corner with a book. He has no idea.”

Fog rolls low around our feet from the fog-machines tucked behind the pumpkins, and the string lights overhead turn everything amber and gold. Kitty’s fingers stay laced through mine.

“Rydker!” Truman’s voice cuts through the noise. He’s knee-deep in a corral of shelter dogs, puppies desperate for pets and a big mutt pressing its nose into a kid’s face. Allie stands off to the side, filming it all on her cell, probably already writing the adoption caption in her head. A little boy and his mom are crouched in front of a yellow lab mix, the kid’s hand buried in its fur, completely gone on it.

Kitty chuckles at the scene. Apple bobbing is happening nearby, and someone is losing badly by the sound of it. People keep stopping us. Curious eyes drop to our joined hands and then back up with that look, the one that says they’ll be talking about this at breakfast tomorrow. I don’t care. Let them talk. I can’t keep my hands to myself much longer. My restraint is dangerously thin. Our Fall Festival tour ends rather quickly, and we end up back at the café.

“Do you want to come up?” Those blue eyes. God, those eyes. I don’t answer. My body does it for me, arms around her, lifting her off the ground before my brain catches up. She makes a small sound of surprise, and I catch it against my neck. There is something about having her in my hold. Nerves are alight with want that reaches back through all the years of wrong choices and bad nights, and insists: this. This right here. Relief loosens in my gut, the knot unraveled.

She wants this as much as I do. Her pulse thuds where my hand cups her jaw: fast, desperate, honest. I kiss her slowly. On purpose. My thumb traces her lower lip first, feels the small catch of her breath, and then I press my mouth to hers and let myself have it. The caramel on her lips is addictive, and I drag my tongue over her lips to get more of it. Her legs lock around my waist. Still not close enough. It might never be close enough.

I take the stairs without breaking the kiss. Her body light in my hold, while her fingers twist in my hair, pulling, and I tighten my grip on her thighs in answer. That sweet tongue of hers brushes my bottom lip, and I nearly lose it right there in the hallway. Damn her mouth. Damn every single thing about her mouth. I would burn my hardware store down just for another five minutes of this. I know that’s true, like I know my own name.

The thought of another man ever touching her, ever having what I have right now, makes my past darkness crawl up to the back of my throat. Mine. The word sits there on my tongue. It tastes ugly, but it’s honest. She’s mine. I haven’t decided on it. It just is.

She smells like coffee and pumpkin baked goods, and it has been wrecking me for hours. Everything about this woman has been wrecking me. Quietly, pulling at my heartstrings. I kick her bedroom door open and drop her onto the mattress. She bounces once and looks up at me with those blue eyes—oh god, they’re wide and fucking twinkle at me. I shrug out of my flannel. Then I grab the back of my t-shirt and pull it over my head in one move. I watch her scoot back slightly.

“Oh my god.” She laughs, fingers covering her giggle. “I’ve never seen a man do that before. That was—okay. That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

My grin is slow. Deliberate. The kind that says I’m just getting started. I undo my belt slowly, my eyes holding hers, and let it drop. Shove my pants down and step out of them. Nothing hidden. Nothing held back. She can see exactly what she does to me. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. “All for you, sweetheart.” Confidence fills my words. Watching her eyes land on where I want her to look and then travel up my body, like she is taking inventory. When her gaze finds mine again, she’s smiling. This soft, lit-up thing hits me somewhere behind the sternum. I drop to my knees. “Can I taste you?”