13. Katie
— ? —
Katie
Three months later, and I still can’t believe this is my life.
Wilson’s Brews is actually thriving. We’ve got regulars now. Real ones who know our names and ask about our weekend and leave tips in the jar by the register. There’s a review in some local magazine calling us “a hidden gem” and “charmingly chaotic.”
Chaotic is right.
Henry still can’t figure out the espresso machine without swearing at least twice. I broke the pastry display last week trying to rearrange it. The milk steamer makes a sound like a dying cat every third drink.
But we’re happy.
We’re so happy it’s almost disgusting.
“You’re staring at me again.”
Henry’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. He’s behind the counter, attempting to create latte art for a customer who definitely didn’t ask for it.
“I’m supervising.”
“You’re staring.”
He glances up with that smile. The one that still makes my stomach flip even after three months of waking up next to him. “Like what you see?”
“The latte art looks like a blob.”
“It’s a HEART.”
“A heart with a disease.”
The customer laughs. Takes her blob-heart latte and leaves a five-dollar tip.
This is us now. Bickering and flirting and running a coffee shop that has no business being successful but somehow is anyway. I quit my old job two months ago. Packed up my tiny apartment. Moved into his tiny apartment.
Best decision I ever made.
We close at seven. Clean up together, moving around each other in the small space like dancers who’ve memorized the choreography. Hip checks and stolen kisses and arguments about whose turn it is to mop.
“I mopped yesterday.”
“You pushed water around. That’s not mopping.”
“There was a mop involved. Therefore, mopping.”
He’s impossible. Absolutely impossible.
I love him so much it scares me sometimes.
Upstairs, Henry decides he’s going to cook dinner. This is always a mistake. The man can run a multimillion-dollar company, negotiate deals that would make lesser men weep, and charm literally anyone he meets.
He cannot cook.
“You’re curdling the sauce. How is that even possible?”
“I know what I’m doing. Just softening the vegetables before adding the sauce base.”
“You absolutely do not.” I lean against the doorframe, watching the pot hiss and spit. “The vegetables are screaming, Henry. I can hear them begging for mercy.”
“Vegetables don’t scream.”
“Yeah, you just did the impossible.”
He spins around, and before I can react, his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is deep and insistent and tastes like the wine he’s been sipping while destroying our dinner. His hands find my waist, pulling me flush against him. I forget about the sauce. Forget about the stove. Forget about everything except the way his body feels pressed against mine.
“That’s cheating,” I manage when we break apart.
“Is it working?”
“The pot is literally boiling over now.”
“Shit.”
He spins back to the stove, dumping the ruined remains into the sink. I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe as he fans the hissing stovetop with a dish towel, cursing creatively.
“We could just order takeout.”
“I had a PLAN, Katie.”
“Your plan is in the sink.”
“The plan is FINE.”
It’s not fine. Nothing about this is fine. The kitchen is a disaster zone, the garlic is deceased, and Henry looks like a man whose entire evening has gone off the rails.
I’ve never loved him more.
“Come here.”
“I need to salvage the...”
“Henry.” I grab his hand. Pull him away from the disaster zone. “Come HERE.”
He lets me tug him closer. The stove finally stops hissing. In the sudden silence, I can hear both of us breathing. Can feel his heart pounding under my palm where it rests on his chest.
“Dinner’s ruined.”
“Dinner was doomed from the start.”
“I wanted to do something nice.”
“This IS nice.” I rise on my toes, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Chaos and mess and you. It’s perfect.”
“Your standards are concerningly low.”
“My standards are exactly where they should be.”
He kisses me again, slower this time. More deliberate. His hands slide from my waist to my hips, then lower, gripping and lifting until I’m sitting on the kitchen counter.
Our thing now.
I don’t know when it became our thing. Sometime in the first month, maybe. When we couldn’t make it to the bedroom and the counter was RIGHT THERE and now I can’t look at this stupid kitchen without blushing.
“We have a perfectly good bedroom,” I gasp as his mouth trails down my neck.
“Too far.”
“It’s fifteen feet away.”
“Fifteen feet too many.”
His fingers find the hem of my shirt and slide underneath. Trace patterns on my bare skin that make me shiver.
His hand moves higher. Cups me through my bra and squeezes.
My shirt disappears. His follows. The pasta water boils over and neither of us moves to fix it. His mouth traces a path down my collarbone, between my breasts, across my ribs and lower.
My head falls back against the cabinet.
“We’re going to destroy this kitchen.”
“Worth it.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings and tug them down. I lift my hips to help, and then there’s nothing between us but his jeans and the rapidly cooling air.
“You’re beautiful.” He says it like a fact. “Every single time I look at you, I can’t believe you’re real.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“That’s the plan.”
His mouth finds my inner thigh. Kisses there. Gentle at first, then not. His stubble scratches against sensitive skin and I gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.
“Henry.”
His breath is hot against me. So close. Not close enough. I’m going to combust if he doesn’t touch me properly in the next three seconds.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please, Henry, I need...”
He doesn’t make me finish the sentence.
His mouth covers me, and I stop thinking entirely. Stop existing as anything other than sensation and want and the slow build of pleasure that starts in my core and spreads outward like ripples in water.
He takes his time. Of course he does. Henry Wilson does everything deliberately, methodically, like he’s got a plan and nothing will rush him. His tongue traces patterns I can’t follow. His fingers join, sliding inside, curling, finding exactly the right spot.
“Oh God.”
“Just me.”
“Shut UP.”
He laughs against me, and the vibration nearly sends me over the edge right there. My heels dig into his shoulders. My hands grip the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turn white.
“Let go.” His voice is rough now. Strained. “I’ve got you.”
So I do.
The orgasm crashes through me like a wave. I cry out his name, not caring about the neighbors, not caring about anything except the way he’s holding me through it, drawing out every last tremor until I’m boneless and gasping.
He rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
“Good?”
“Adequate.”
“ADEQUATE?”
“Maybe slightly above average.”
He growls and lifts me off the counter. I yelp, wrapping my legs around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom.
“Fifteen feet suddenly isn’t too far?”
“I’m going to make you pay for ‘adequate.’”
“Promise?”
He tosses me onto the bed. I bounce once, laughing, watching him strip off his jeans with an urgency that sends heat pooling low in my belly all over again.
“I promise.”
He keeps it.
***
Later, MUCH later, we’re sitting on the kitchen floor eating mushy pasta that’s somehow still better than takeout.
I’m wearing his shirt and nothing else. He’s in boxers and a satisfied smile. The apartment smells like marinara and sex and it should be disgusting but somehow it’s perfect.
“We’re disasters,” I say around a mouthful of overcooked spaghetti.
“We’re perfect disasters.” He twirls pasta onto his fork and holds it out to me. “My favorite kind.”
“This pasta is genuinely terrible.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I take the bite. “It’s the best meal I’ve ever had.”
“Your standards really ARE concerningly low.”
“My standards are perfect. My standards brought me here.” I lean over and kiss him, tasting marinara and contentment. “My standards brought me you.”
His eyes soften. “Katie...”
Thunder rumbles outside.
We both look toward the window. The sky has gone dark and ominous while we were occupied. Lightning flashes in the distance, followed by another roll of thunder that rattles the windows.
“Storm’s coming.”
“Looks like it.”
“We should probably...”
The lights go out.
Total darkness. For a second, neither of us moves. Then Henry’s hand finds mine in the black.
“Stay here.”
“Where would I go? Chase the storm?”
I hear him fumbling around. Drawers opening and things falling. A creative curse that makes me snort.
“Found them.”
A match strikes, then another. Slowly, the apartment fills with candlelight.
Henry stands in the middle of our tiny kitchen, surrounded by candles like some kind of romantic disaster preparedness ad.
“You have a lot of candles.”
“Sophie got them for me. Said every proper home needs ambiance.”
“This is very ambient.”
“Isn’t it?”
He crosses to me and pulls me to my feet. We stand there in the candlelight, the storm raging outside.
“Dance with me.”
“There’s no music.”
“So?”
He pulls me closer, one hand on my waist. One hand holding mine. We sway together to nothing but the sound of rain against the windows and our own breathing.
“Henry.”
“Hmm?”
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing with you.”
“You hate dancing.”
“I hate dancing at galas with people I don’t like.” He spins me gently, then pulls me back in. “I love dancing with you in our kitchen during a blackout.”
“You’re being weird.”
He laughs. The candlelight catches the planes of his face, the curve of his smile, the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“Come to bed.”
“We just got OUT of bed.”
“So let’s go back.”
I let him lead me there.
The bedroom is darker than the kitchen, but he brings a few candles. Sets them on the nightstand. The light flickers and dances across the sheets, across his skin, across my own hands as I reach for him.
He doesn’t pounce like before.
This time, he pulls me close and just... holds me. Traces my face with his fingertips like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s cataloging every detail.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re scared I’m going to disappear.”
His breath catches. “Maybe I am.”
“Henry...”
“Marry me.”
I stop breathing.
“What?”
“Not now. Not tomorrow.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “Whenever you’re ready. However long it takes. But someday, Katie.” His voice cracks. “Someday, marry me.”
“Is this... are you serious?”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”
“We’ve only been together for three months.”
“I know.”
“Most people would say that’s too fast.”
“Most people haven’t lived what we’ve lived.
” His forehead presses against mine. “Most people haven’t found someone who makes them want to give up everything just for a chance.
Most people haven’t fallen in love in the middle of a revenge plot and come out the other side knowing, KNOWING, that this is it. ”
“Henry...”
“You don’t have to answer now. You don’t have to answer for years if you need them.” His hands cup my face. “But I need you to know that I’m in this. All the way. Forever. Until the day I die and probably after.”
My eyes are burning.
“You gave up hundreds of millions of dollars for me.”
“I’d do it again.”
“You opened a coffee shop because I needed you to be normal.”
“Best decision I ever made.”
“You destroyed dinner tonight.”
“I really did.”
I laugh through the tears streaming down my face. “I love you.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s a...” I pull him down on top of me. Kiss him until neither of us can breathe. “That’s a someday. That’s a yes to someday.”
His whole face transforms.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll marry me?”
“Someday.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “When we’re ready. When the timing is right. When it feels like the next step instead of a leap.”
“I can wait.” He kisses me again, deep and thorough. “I can wait forever for you.”
“You won’t have to wait forever.”
“No?”
“No.” I arch up against him, feeling him respond instantly. “But right now, I need you to stop talking.”
He doesn’t argue.
A slow, deliberate gravity takes over our movements, turning each touch and kiss into a silent pact that makes the rest of the world completely fade away.
“I love you.” The words fall out between gasps, between kisses, between the sweet slide of skin on skin.
“I love you too.” He moves inside me like he’s trying to crawl into my soul. “Forever.”
“Forever.”
The storm rages outside. The world narrows down to just us, just this, just two people who found each other in the wreckage and decided to build something new.
“Yes,” I breathe against his mouth as the pleasure builds, crests, breaks. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
He follows me over the edge, and we fall together.