Chapter 9 Nate #2
I laughed, real and unguarded. She tugged gently on the leashes, murmuring to them with quiet patience, like this kind of chaos was just another thing she knew how to handle.
It was unfair how cute she looked doing it—hair wind-tousled, cheeks pink from the cold, completely unembarrassed.
The kind of person who didn’t try to be charming and somehow managed it anyway.
She smiled, but there was a sadness threaded through it, subtle enough that most people would miss it.
I didn’t. It stirred something protective and reckless in me—the need to ease her burden, even for a moment.
I wanted to make her laugh so badly it felt like a promise forming in my chest. Not because I thought I could fix her, but because I found myself wanting to be the one who made her smile for real.
“Of course.” I crouched a little, hands on my knees. “I’ve never seen anyone walk cats like this. Is this a daily act of bravery, or did they unionize and demand fresh air?”
“Not daily, but enough to make people think I’m an oddity,” she said. “When they start looking at the windows like inmates planning an escape, then I have to take them out.”
The brown tortoiseshell—sleek, alert, all coiled muscle—fixed me with bright, assessing eyes, tail flicking like he might actually launch himself at a squirrel just to prove a point.
The orange tabby sat squarely on the path, round and unimpressed, paws tucked under his chest like a grumpy loaf of bread, glaring at me like I’d personally offended him by existing.
“That one hates me,” I said.
“He hates everyone,” she replied. “It’s his brand.”
I smiled despite myself. “And the other?”
“He thinks he’s in charge.”
“Ah,” I said solemnly. “Like Lois—and Tilly. Relatable.”
She snorted into her coffee cup, then tried—and failed—to look annoyed. The knit hat pulled low over her hair made her eyes stand out, dark and warm, and the long coat wrapped around her in a way that made my chest do something inconvenient.
I straightened, suddenly aware of my heartbeat for reasons unrelated to jogging. “So,” I said lightly, “do they bite, or should I risk a hello?”
“They don’t bite,” she said. Then, after a beat, “Usually.”
The brown one leaned forward, curious. The orange tabby turned his head away in clear disdain.
“Good to know,” I murmured. “I’d hate for my legacy in this town to be the guy taken down by a leashed cat in a park.”
Her mouth curved, soft and real this time. “You’d recover. People here are very forgiving.”
“Depends on who’s telling the story,” I said, meeting her gaze. “You look… nice.”
It came out quieter than I meant. Honest enough that she probably knew I settled for nice to be polite, or proper, or whatever.
She blinked, just once. “You’re sweaty,” she said, deadpan.
“Wow,” I said. “Straight for the throat.”
“And yet,” she added, eyes flicking over me in a way that absolutely did not feel accidental, “it’s working for you.”
The orange tabby cat huffed like he disapproved of her flirting. The brown one stepped closer to my shoe, sniffed, and decided I was acceptable.
“See?” I said. “I’ve been vetted.”
She smiled, standing there with her coffee and her cats and that look on her face that made the whole park feel smaller, quieter. Like I’d found something I hadn’t known I was looking for.
“Careful,” she said softly. “They get attached.”
I held her gaze. “So do I.”
I meant it as a joke. Mostly. But something in her expression shifted anyway—surprise first, then a softness she didn’t rush to hide.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “that makes three of you.”
The brown tabby chose that moment to rub against my ankle like we were old friends. The orange one flicked an ear and continued pretending I didn’t exist.
“Wow,” I said. “I’ve been accepted into the inner circle.”
“Don’t get cocky,” she warned. “That one”—she tipped her chin at the orange-colored loaf—“is still deciding whether you’re a threat.”
“I respect his process.”
She laughed again, quieter this time, and took a sip of her coffee.
Steam curled between us, the air sharp with cold and pine and whatever bakery down the street had started warming up.
The park was almost empty—except for a couple walking a dog in the distance, and a jogger passing on the path like we weren’t standing in the middle of a moment.
“So,” I said, because silence with her felt charged instead of awkward, “is this part of your routine? Coffee. Cats. Mild intimidation of strangers.”
“It depends on the day,” she said. “Sometimes I just intimidate strangers at the Coffee Cabin.”
“Efficient.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, and there it was again—that look like she was deciding whether to step closer or take a step back. I stayed where I was. Let her choose.
“You run every day?” she asked.
“Most days,” I said. “It helps me think.”
“And today?” she prompted. “Did it help?”
I shrugged. “Today it helped me find you.”
Her breath caught. “That sounds suspiciously close to flirting,” she said.
“Is it working?”
She glanced down at the cats, then back up at me. “Maybe.”
The brown cat sat down decisively at my feet like he’d made a ruling. I smiled.
“I feel like I should say thank you,” I said to him.
“He prefers tributes,” she said. “Treats. Blind devotion.”
“I can manage devotion.”
Her mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Careful, Nate.”
I liked the way she said my name. Liked the way she didn’t say anything else after that. How she stood there with the words stretching out between us, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the steam from her coffee.
I watched the way she handled them—gentle, steady, unembarrassed—and felt the familiar tug of a question I kept not asking.
Graham hovered at the edge of my thoughts, something unfinished I didn’t know enough about.
I could ask. Or I could let it be. And for now, letting it be felt like the kinder choice.
“I should let you finish your walk,” I said, even though I didn’t want to.
She hesitated. “We’re looping back toward town.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I fell into step beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world. The cats tolerated it. She did too. And as we walked, close enough that our arms brushed now and then, I had the strangest, quietest thought: This. Me and her. This could be something.
I couldn’t help but grin, imagining her leading this little parade through the frosty park, getting side-eyed by boring dogwalkers. “Well, you’re definitely making this place more interesting. What are their names?”
“Remy and Linguine.”
“Ratatouille. Right? Their names.” I laughed, and she glanced up at me through her eyelashes. The sharp edges of her expression softened, just for a second. “Tilly loves that movie. I do too, if I’m being honest.”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
I remembered what my grandma had said about her cooking and smiled at her.
She stopped and studied my face—not the way customers looked at me, not the way people in town looked at the guy who took over the Pennywhistle—but the way Eliza always looked at me.
Like she saw too much and didn’t know what to do with it.
“Kid-free night?” she asked.
“Yeah. Tilly’s having a sleepover at my grandma’s. I was going to do exciting things like fold laundry and buy milk, but decided to go for a jog instead.”
“You know how to get wild.”
I hesitated, shifting my weight from foot to foot.
The night felt unusually quiet, punctuated only by the distant hum of cars passing and the faint jingling of the cats’ collars.
There was a comfort in the silence between us, a sense that we didn’t need to fill every moment with words.
Still, I found myself searching her face for answers I wasn’t brave enough to ask for yet.
I wanted to ask her out again. I wanted more with her, but wasn’t sure if asking would put pressure on our—whatever it was we were doing.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” I said carefully.
Her brow lifted. “Oh yeah?”
“I want to ask you something. But not here. Not while your cats are watching me.”
Her smile froze—hesitant, like maybe she didn’t know what to do with flirting that didn’t ask for anything in return.
As I looked at her, a flicker of worry crept in.
There was a heaviness in her eyes tonight, a sadness she tried to mask with laughter, but I could feel it lingering between us.
It made me want to ask if she was really okay, even though I knew she’d brush it off.
“Go home,” she said eventually, tucking her chin down into her scarf. “Buy your milk. Fold your socks. Maybe I’ll let you ask me later. And uh—I need to talk about something with you too. Stop by in the morning for coffee?”
I nodded. “Okay.” And then, because I couldn’t help myself, I added, “You look good tonight, Eliza. More than nice—beautiful.”
She didn’t say anything. But I saw the smile she tried to hide.
Before I could leave, Graham turned the corner, jogging in our direction.
She didn’t see him; her back was turned, but the cats circled her legs, their leashes tangling as they paced, suspicious of every breeze and twig snap in the dark.
Eliza tugged her coat tighter around herself and nudged Remy back gently with her foot. “You sure you don’t want to adopt one? He growled at the vacuum this morning and then tried to fight it.”
“I respect a man who knows his enemies,” I said, smiling as I kept my eyes on Graham and hoping he’d pass us by.
She laughed under her breath, the kind of laugh you only earned if you’d known her more than five minutes. The quiet, real kind.
“I should let you go,” she said. “You have things to do that don’t involve cats on leashes.”
“Laundry can wait.” I paused. “Though if I keep running into you like this, I might pretend I forgot detergent just to get out again.”
Her lips quirked. “That’s a terrible line.”
“Still worked. It got you to smile at me again.”
And then the rhythm shifted.