12. Katie
— ? —
Katie
I stand frozen on the sidewalk.
Henry Wilson, the man who owns half the commercial real estate in Manhattan, is wearing a green apron and steaming milk like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
The shop is small and genuinely warm, lit by a low glow through dusty windows and anchored by a hand-written chalkboard menu with normal prices, its mismatched thrift-store furniture feeling completely removed from the sterile penthouse world I walked away from a month ago.
The sign above the door reads “Wilson’s Brews” in hand-painted letters.
What the hell is happening?
My feet move and I cross the street, nearly getting clipped by a biker who screams something creative about my mother. I don’t care. I can’t look away from the window. From him.
He looks different.
Softer somehow, less polished. His hair is slightly longer, curling at the edges. There’s stubble on his jaw that he never would have allowed in his old life. He’s wearing a henley under the apron, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms flexing as he works the espresso machine.
God, I missed him.
The bell above the door chimes when I push it open.
Henry looks up.
His expression changes completely. He looks surprised and relieved. Seeing this causes a sharp ache in my chest, and I have to grip the nearest table to stand steady.
“Katie.”
Just my name. That’s all he says. But the way he says it, like he’s been holding his breath for a month and can finally exhale, makes tears prick at my eyes.
“What are you DOING here?”
“Making coffee.” He gestures at the espresso machine like it’s obvious. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’ve lost your mind!”
“Probably. The hours are terrible and I keep burning myself on the steam wand.”
“Henry.” I walk toward the counter, my heart hammering so loud. “You’re a multi-millionaire. You own buildings. You have a PENTHOUSE.”
“Had.”
“What?”
“Had a penthouse.” He wipes his hands on the apron, leaving a smear of coffee grounds. “Past tense.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I donated most of it.” He says it casually, like he’s talking about giving away old clothes. “To charity, to a foundation, actually. The one that funds cancer research.”
“You donated WHAT to charity?”
“The money. The penthouse. The cars. Most of the investments.” He ticks them off on his fingers like they’re grocery items. “Except this place. I bought it about two weeks after you left. There’s a small apartment upstairs with a leaky faucet. That’s pretty much it.”
“Henry, that’s... that’s MILLIONS of dollars.”
“Hundreds of millions, technically. Sophie nearly had a stroke when I told her.”
“You gave away hundreds of millions of dollars?”
“I did.”
“WHY?”
He walks around the counter. Like he’s approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement.
“Because you walked out that door and told me you didn’t know who you were. Without the revenge. Without the money. Without me.”
“So you... what? Decided to become a barista?”
“I decided to get rid of the noise.” He stops in front of me. Close enough to touch. “The penthouse was just a place I slept. The money was just numbers on a screen. None of it meant anything. None of it made me happy.”
“And THIS makes you happy?” I gesture around the tiny shop with its mismatched furniture and slightly crooked picture frames. “Steaming milk for strangers? Wiping down tables?”
“No.” His eyes lock onto mine, and I forget how to breathe. “YOU make me happy. This is just something to do while I wait.”
My throat closes.
“While you wait for what?”
“For you to figure out what I already knew the night I kissed you in that elevator.”
“Which is?”
“That we belong together.” He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers graze my cheek and I shiver. “That what we have is real. That it doesn’t matter if we’re in a penthouse or a studio apartment or a cardboard box under a bridge.”
“Henry...”
“I love you, Katie.”
“You can’t just SAY that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Because it’s been a MONTH. Because I left. Because I told you I needed space and you’re supposed to be mad at me, not...” I gesture helplessly at the coffee shop. “Not THIS.”
“I was mad. For about three days.” His mouth quirks into that half-smile I’ve been dreaming about. “Then I got over it and started planning.”
“Planning WHAT?”
“This.” He spreads his arms. “The shop. The apartment. A life that doesn’t involve board meetings or charity galas or any of the garbage that made you feel like you didn’t belong.”
“You did all this for ME?”
“I did it for us.” He steps closer, and now there’s barely any space between us.
“I stripped away everything that wasn’t essential.
Everything that made you doubt what we had.
And now it’s just me. A guy who owns a coffee shop.
A guy who makes a mean latte and fights the espresso machine every morning and has no idea what he’s doing half the time. ”
“This is insane.”
“Probably.”
“You gave away your entire fortune.”
“Most of it. I kept enough to keep this place running and pay the bills. Also, I have sufficient emergency funds. I learned that most people are one hospitalization away from being destitute. See, just enough to not worry too much about surviving and not enough that people see my face and associate me with money.”
“For a COFFEE SHOP.”
“For you.” His hands cup my face. “I’d give away ten fortunes for you, Katie Brooks. I’d sell everything I own and live in a tent if it meant you’d stop running. If it meant you’d look at me and see just a man who loves you instead of a millionaire you can’t trust.”
Tears spill down my cheeks. I can’t stop them.
“I wasn’t running FROM you.”
“I know.”
“I was running from myself. From the person everyone thought I was. From the girl who couldn’t tell the difference between love and survival.”
“And now?”
“Now I know.”
His breath catches. “Know what?”
“I know who I am.” I press my hand against his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath my palm.
Strong and steady and racing just as fast as mine.
“I’m Katie Brooks. I’m terrible at cooking.
I cry at commercials. I hold grudges longer than I should.
I’m scared of heights and commitment and people who chew with their mouths open. ”
“That’s very specific.”
“And I’m in love with you.” The words tumble out, unstoppable, like a dam breaking. “My reasons have nothing to do with you saving me, believing in me when the rest of the world walked away, or even throwing away millions of dollars just to prove a point.”
“Then why?”
“Because when I’m with you, I’m not broken. I’m not Kyle’s ex-wife or Erin’s sister or anyone’s victim.” I rise on my toes, bringing my face closer to his. “I’m just Katie. And you make me feel like that’s enough. Like I’ve always been enough.”
Henry doesn’t say anything.
He kisses me instead.
His mouth brushes mine with a careful, questioning pressure, as if he’s trying to anchor himself to the reality that I’m actually standing in front of him.
I grant it.
My arms wrap around his neck. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss. I taste coffee and something sweeter underneath. Something that’s just him.
I missed this.
The kiss deepens, turns desperate, turns into something that’s been building for months.
All those nights lying awake in my tiny apartment, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I made the right choice.
All those mornings reaching for a body that wasn’t there.
All that wanting compressed into this single moment.
“Upstairs.” The word comes out ragged against his lips. “Now.”
“The shop...”
“Close it.”
“It’s two in the afternoon. I have regulars who come at two thirty.”
“Henry.” I pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Close the damn shop.”
A sudden hunger tightens his features, sending an immediate, heavy rush of warmth straight through me.
He reaches behind him without looking, flips the sign to CLOSED.
We barely make it up the stairs.
His apartment is small, simple. A bed with rumpled sheets he clearly didn’t bother making this morning. A couch that’s seen better days. A kitchen that looks like it’s been used exactly twice, both times unsuccessfully if the sauce stains on the ceiling are any indication.
Nothing like the penthouse. Nothing like the life he left behind.
I love it.
Henry pins me against the door the moment it closes. His mouth finds mine again, hungrier now, more urgent. My back arches against the wood as his hands explore my sides, my hips, the curve of my waist.
“I’ve wanted you since that night in my kitchen.” His voice is rough against my neck, sending shivers down my spine. “When you were sitting on my counter in that ridiculous robe, eating ice cream at two in the morning.”
“That was a nice robe.”
“It was ugly as sin.” He nips at my collarbone. “I wanted to tear it off you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because you weren’t ready.” His hands find the zipper at the back of my dress. “Because I would have hated myself for taking advantage.” The zipper slides down, tooth by tooth, agonizingly slow. “Because I wanted to do this RIGHT.”
“And now?”
“Now you’re here.” The dress falls from my shoulders. “Now you’re telling me you love me.” It pools at my feet. “Now I don’t have to hold back anymore.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. Standing there in nothing but my underwear, feeling more exposed than I’ve ever felt in my life.
But not vulnerable.
Not with the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Like he can’t believe I’m real.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m memorizing.” His fingers trace the line of my shoulder, down my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “In case this is a dream. In case I wake up tomorrow and you’re gone again.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
He kisses me again. This time it’s all heat and need and a month of loneliness burning between us.