Chapter 5: Corbin - Purrfect Valentine

The mannequin pointing a heart-tipped arrow at my chest was the last straw. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at it. The thing was wearing a cupid costume covered in glitter and sequins, one wing drooping as if it had given up on life. Kinda like me. Its painted eyes seemed to follow me. Its smile was unhinged. God, I was going to have nightmares about it, wasn’t I?

I hated this town.

“Happy Valentine’s season!” a woman chirped as she passed, arms full of roses.

I grunted and kept walking.

Cupid Corner had vomited Valentine’s Day all over itself. Every window had hearts in it—paper hearts, felt hearts, hearts made of fairy lights, painted hearts. A banner stretched across Main Street proclaimed LOVE IS IN THE AIR! in script.

Love was not in the air. What was in the air was the smell of bread from that bakery I’d passed three times now and the bitter taste of being ignored by the one person I wanted to notice me.

I checked my phone. Again.

No missed calls. No texts. I’d tried calling Andi twice this morning before I’d even gotten out of bed. Both times, straight to voicemail. At this point, the silence said everything her words hadn’t.

She doesn’t want you.

And I didn’t blame her. Why would she want me? I had no job, no car, and, as the vet pointed out yesterday, I was a grumpy asshole.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and focused on the crunch of old snow and ice under my boots. I’d come with a plan—drive through the mountains, show up at Andi’s door, prove I could be the guy she wanted. Instead, I’d gotten stranded in a Hallmark movie with a dying kitten and a vet who had strong-armed me with pad thai and a nearly impossible choice.

Last night kept replaying in my head. The clinic. The kitten launching off Ally’s chest and climbing me to purr against my neck. The way she’d laid out my options—treatment or murder—like she was handing me a menu instead of asking me to decide whether something lived or died.

And the way she’d looked at me when I’d grabbed her wrist and told her to wait. Those wide eyes, searching my face. But searching for what? And then she’d grinned, and I couldn’t stop staring at her cherry pink lips.

There it is. I knew there was a heart in there somewhere.

Shut up.

I turned down a side street, trying to avoid Main Street and its aggressive cheerfulness. But somehow my feet carried me back there anyway, past an old candy shop under construction and a bookshop called The Spiral Quill. Past a florist hauling buckets of roses and people dressed in reds and pinks.

And there, at the corner, pink-toned and unavoidable: Cupid’s Cat Café.

Keep walking.

The fat orange cat in the window made eye contact with me. It looked smug. Like it knew something I didn’t.

Do not⁠—

“Superman! Get in here, it’s freezing!”

Wim—or was Bev the one without glasses?—was waving at me through the glass with too much enthusiasm. Behind her, the other one was already moving toward the door.

I considered running. I was taller. I could probably outpace them.

But the pink-haired one had the door open before I could execute my escape, her hand clamping onto my arm with surprising strength.

“Don’t be shy,” she said, hauling me inside. “You look like you need warming up.”

The café hit me with a wall of warmth and the smell of coffee. Cats draped themselves across every surface—window seats, armchairs, the back of a sofa where a sleek black one watched me with calculating eyes. The same Siamese perched on the tall shelf, blue eyes tracking my every move.

The décor was pink. Relentlessly, unapologetically pink. Pastel walls, a heart-shaped chalkboard menu, cushions embroidered with cat puns. But somehow it worked. Less Valentine’s explosion, more eccentric grandmother’s fever dream.

The orange cat from the window descended and was now weaving between my legs. Probably hoping I’d trip and hit my head on the counter so he could eat my dead body. I’d heard somewhere that cats did that when their owners died.

“That’s Cupid,” Wim—that’s right, she was the one with purple hair—called from behind the counter. “Don’t let the cute face fool you. He’s tripped three customers this week.”

“Noted.” I tried to step around him. He matched my movements like we were dancing.

“Give it up,” Bev said. She was shorter than Wim, rounder, with pink hair that clashed magnificently with the café’s décor. “He’s chosen you. Fighting it only makes it worse.”

“Sit, sit.” Wim was already pulling out a ceramic mug. “What’s your poison? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate with the works?”

“Coffee.”

“How do you take it?”

I hesitated. Normally I’d say black, because that was what normal adults drank. But I’d been awake half the night replaying the kitten’s purr against my chest, and normal felt very far away.

“Cream and sugar,” I muttered.

“How much?”

“...A lot.”

Wim’s eyebrows rose. Bev cackled.

“A lot,” Wim repeated, reaching for the sugar. “Can you be more specific? I need to know if we’re talking ‘reasonable adult’ or ‘would make a diabetic faint.’”

“Three sugars. And enough cream to turn it the color of sand.”

Bev slid into a chair and patted the seat across from her. “That’s not coffee, sweetheart. That’s milk with coffee flavoring.”

“It has caffeine. That makes it coffee.”

“By that logic, chocolate-covered espresso beans are a complete breakfast.”

“They are. Caffeine and sugar. Two food groups.”

Wim snorted as she doctored the mug. “I like him,” she said to Bev. “He’s wrong about everything, but I like him.”

I sat because I’d been walking around all morning, and my legs were sore. Cupid immediately jumped into my lap, his weight settling against my thighs. Dude needed to lay off the leftover pastries because, damn, he was fat.

“He likes you,” Bev said.

“I think he wants to eat me,” I grumbled, glaring at the cat.

“Take the win, Kent.” Bev scratched behind the cat’s ears.

“It’s Corbin. My name is Corbin.”

“I know.” She grinned at me. “We wanted to thank you, Corbin.”

Wim passed me the mug of adequately tan coffee and sat next to Bev. I took a sip of the coffee to avoid responding. It was perfect. I hated that.

“For the kitten,” Wim added. “Ally told us you chose treatment for the baby’s FIP.”

My stomach dropped.

“How do you—” I set the mug down too hard, and Cupid gave me a scathing look. “That was a private conversation. Last night. Behind closed doors.”

Bev and Wim exchanged a glance.

“Honey,” Wim said gently, “this is Cupid Corner.”

“Nothing stays private,” Bev added, not remotely apologetic. “Denise from the clinic came in for her morning latte. She was thrilled.”

“It’s been twelve hours.”

“Fast news.”

“Sometimes faster.”

I stared at them. They stared back.

“The treatment was the right call.” Wim’s voice softened as she settled farther back in the chair. “That kitten looked like a fighter. I’ve seen enough cats to know.”

“Ally said she’s already started her on the injections,” Bev added. “Painful as hell for the little ones, but it works. When it works.”

Something cold slid down my spine. “You have experience with them?”

The two women dropped eye contact at the same time, and Bev fiddled with the stack of napkins on the table.

“We’ve had two FIP cats come through this café,” Wim said. “Ally treated both. Polly over there”—she nodded toward a tabby cat—"she beat it. Eighteen months ago, we thought we’d lose her. Now look at her. Happy as a kid on Christmas."

The cat slept peacefully on one branch of the large cat tower. I could barely see its face with its fluffy tail covering her head.

“And the other one?” I asked, turning my attention back to the women.

Bev’s smile dimmed. “Sweet little calico named Penny. She fought hard. Ally fought harder. But sometimes...” She shrugged. “Sometimes it’s not enough.”

The coffee turned bitter in my mouth.

“Ally takes every loss personally,” Wim continued. “Told me she cried for three days after Penny. But she never stops trying. Not once.”

“That’s her job, isn’t it?” I asked.

“It’s more than that.” Bev tilted her head, studying me. I had the feeling she could see straight through my bullshit. “Your vet takes her work personally.”

My jaw tightened. “She’s not my vet.”

Another exchanged look. More silent conversation.

“She’s treating your kitten,” Wim pointed out. “That makes her your vet.”

“The kitten isn’t mine either.”

“You saved her life.”

“That doesn’t⁠—”

The café door chimed. A man in a flannel shirt and work boots spotted me, and his face split into a grin I hadn’t earned.

“Hey Bev, Wim. And you must be the guy, right? The one who saved that kitten?”

I opened my mouth to correct him—I hadn’t saved anything—but he was already crossing the café, hand extended.

“Heard about it from Misty at the hairdresser’s. Hell of a thing, finding a sick kitten on the mountain road and getting her help.” He pumped my hand with the enthusiasm of someone greeting a war hero. “Takes a real decent person to make that call. Most folks, well, folks outside Cupid Corner, would’ve left her there. We need more people like you around here,” he continued, finally releasing my hand. He moved toward the counter, tossing over his shoulder: “Welcome to Cupid Corner.”

Wim got up and helped the man as he ordered his coffee and left with a wave, completely oblivious to the fact that he was wrong about me.

Decent person.

Most folks would’ve left her.

More people like you.

I turned back to Bev and Wim as the latter sat back down. They wore matching expressions of satisfaction, like cats who’d gotten into the cream and weren’t sorry about it.

“Does everyone in this town know everything about everyone?”

“Pretty much,” Bev said cheerfully.

“Within the hour. It’s efficient,” Wim added. “Also unavoidable. You’ll get used to it.”

Cupid kneaded his paws against my thigh, claws pricking through denim in a rhythm that reminded me of the kitten last night. She’d done the same thing. Ally had said something about it being comforting. I shifted to give the fat cat a better angle, and something in my chest loosened. Was it meant to be comforting to the cat or to the poor fool who was getting massaged with claws?

Either way, I didn’t push him off. Which was weird. I wasn’t the kind of guy who let cats knead him in public. I wasn’t the kind of guy strangers called decent.

Except, apparently, I was.

The thought sat wrong in my chest, bumping up against something older. Uglier.

You’re difficult. My mother’s voice, surfacing from a place I kept locked for good reason. You make everything harder than it needs to be.

You’re kind of a lot, Andi had said, more than once. You know that, right?

I’d built an identity around those words. I was logical. Practical. Not the kind of person who saved kittens or let old ladies make him coffee, or sat in a cat café while a fat orange menace purred against his legs.

But a stranger had looked at me and seen something decent.

And all I could think about was the way Ally had smiled when I’d told her to save the damn kitten. Like I’d given her something she hadn’t expected.

“I’m not staying.” The words came out rougher than intended. “As soon as my car’s fixed, I’m leaving.” I rubbed my hand over my chin, glaring out the window.

“Of course you are,” Bev said mildly.

“This is temporary.”

“Absolutely.”

Neither of them argued. Neither of them looked convinced.

I finished my coffee faster than I should have and extracted myself from Cupid’s grip. The cat gave me a look of profound betrayal.

“Thanks for the coffee.” I dropped money on the table despite Wim’s protests.

“At least take this.” Wim disappeared into a back room and returned wheeling out an old bicycle—powder blue, a bit rusted, with a wire basket on the front. “You can’t keep walking everywhere. Heard from Lynx that your car won’t be ready for a few more days at least.”

“I’m not riding that.”

“Why not? It works fine.”

“It’s...It’s…”

“Blue? It matches your mood.” She parked it in front of me. “Consider it a loaner. Return it whenever. Or don’t.”

I stared at the bike. The bike stared back, somehow as smug as the cats.

“I don’t need⁠—”

“You’re staying at the inn on the edge of town,” Bev cut in. “The clinic and the mechanic are in the other direction. Are you planning to walk back and forth every day to check on that kitten you definitely don’t care about?”

I didn’t have an answer for that.

“Take the bike, Superman,” Wim said. “Consider it payment for entertaining us this morning.”

I took the bike.

“Come back anytime,” Wim called as I wheeled it toward the door.

“We mean it,” Bev added. “You’re welcome here, Corbin.”

I didn’t know what to do with that, so I nodded and pushed out into the cold.

The bike didn’t break, which I suppose was a good thing. And it beat walking. My feet were tired. Unfortunately, the ride back to the inn didn’t clear my head.

I kept seeing Ally’s face. The flash of surprise when I’d grabbed her wrist—her pulse jumping under my thumb. The way her lips had parted before she’d schooled her expression into something professional.

She’d been ready to walk out and end that kitten’s life. She’d laid out the options and trusted me to choose. And when I’d chosen the harder path, she hadn’t looked relieved or grateful. She’d looked... pleased. Like I’d confirmed something she’d suspected.

Like she knew I’d choose the cat.

I was still thinking about her smile. About the freckles scattered across her nose. About the pink tips of her hair that matched the streak of exhaustion under her eyes. About the way she’d tucked a loose strand behind her ear while explaining treatment options, her voice steady even when she’d been offering to euthanize a kitten for a stranger. I’d noticed the golden flecks in her eyes when she’d leaned close.

Jesus Christ. I scrubbed a hand over my face. Get a grip.

The kitten wasn’t mine. Ally wasn’t my vet. This town wasn’t my home.

The kitten hadn’t asked to be abandoned. God, I knew that feeling more than anyone. The kitten hadn’t asked to be sick. I hadn’t asked to be laid off or for my car to break down. The kitten hadn’t asked for me.

But she’d pressed her body against my chest like I was the only safe place in the world.

And without trying, I’d chosen her back.

I stopped walking.

The inn was visible now. My room was waiting in that converted barn—twin bed, heart pillows, wallpaper that mocked me. I could go back there, close the door, and spiral about Andi for another few hours. Try calling her again. Throw that stupid pillow against the wall until my arm got tired.

Or.

Or.

I could acknowledge what I already knew: that walking away from Cupid Corner—from the kitten, from Bev and Wim, from a vet with freckles and a smile that cracked open something I’d spent years keeping locked—wasn’t going to be as simple as I’d planned.

The realization settled in my chest like a stone.

And I was absolutely, completely, royally pissed about it.