Chapter Forty Seven
Maeve
How is this my life again?
I’m standing behind the counter, nodding along while a man in a very expensive-looking suit mansplains what a flat white is, getting it so catastrophically wrong that it's almost impressive.
I keep my smile fixed in place, but behind my eyes I am actively fantasising about yelling and throwing the coffee at him so everyone can hear it—because they bloody need to—, that a flat white does not belong in a large cup!
Instead, I hand him a flat white in a large cup—a latte, because that's what it is—and move to the next customer. Because, unfortunately, in the great list of things I swore I was done with, I have returned to the same pit of hell I walked out of all those months ago.
It took me over a month after returning to get off my arse and ask—grovel—for my job back.
A full month of what can only be described as becoming an absolute heartbreak cliché.
Watching countless sad romance films, I don’t even particularly like, purely because I needed something emotionally efficient enough to cry at while shovelling ice cream directly into my gob like I’m not lactose intolerant.
I paid for that, by the way. Multiple times.
Worth it, and also not worth it.
It was only a couple of weeks ago that I finally unpacked the suitcases I'd been stepping around, because unpacking meant admitting it was over.
I'm only semi-functioning now thanks to Iris, who staged what I can only describe as an emotional ambush disguised as a girls' night. Lured me in with snacks and wine.
So here I am. Back to my old life, as if the past nine months hadn’t happened. Back to serving people who think they're quirky because they order the most needlessly complicated drinks that aren’t on the menu.
The coffee shop is its usual early afternoon chaos—the hiss of the steam wand, the clatter of the portafilter, the low collective roar of a dozen conversations happening at once at a volume that suggests nobody in London has ever once been told to use their inside voice.
I move through it on autopilot, the way I always did. Take order, make coffee, smile, repeat. My body remembers the rhythm even when my head is somewhere else entirely.
I'm steaming the milk for what I'm fairly certain is my hundredth gingerbread latte of the day, because apparently November is the new Christmas, when someone tries to get my attention at the counter behind me.
I throw a cheerful “Be right with you!” over my shoulder, and finish the pour of the latte art.
Then a voice behind me says, very calmly—
“I can't wait any longer, angel.”
My hands stop.
That accent, I’d know anywhere, but it definitely does belong anywhere near a Zone 2 coffee shop. No, that drawl belongs back in Texas.
I turn around slowly, and for a solid three seconds my brain simply refuses to participate in reality.
Because Wade is standing in my coffee shop. In London. In the flesh, boots on the tiled floor, Stetson firmly on his head, sticking out like a sore thumb.
My mouth opens.
“Wade—,” I manage. It comes out smaller than I intend. “Wha—how are you—.”
“Had your address from your application,” he says. The corner of his mouth pulls into that half-smile I've spent three months trying to forget. “Got to your apartment first. Iris told me where you were.”
Iris. The sneaky little bitch, she could have at least warned me.
“No, I meant—” I shake my head. “Why are you here?”
He doesn't answer straight away. Instead, he steps up to the counter and looks at me the way he used to do on the porch in the mornings, before the ranch woke up properly, when it was just the two of us and the quiet.
“I’m here to bring my angel back home,” he finally says.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes. Wade Carter has left me speechless.
He drags a hand through his hair briefly, the only crack in his composure, and exhales.
“I never wanted you to leave, Maeve.” His voice is low, steady, meant only for me.
“I was making a plan for you to stay with the hope you would want to.” He holds my gaze.
“I finally filed for the divorce because the moment I knew I was falling for you, I had to clean the slate and do it right.
In hopes that we'd get the chance to see what this is, beyond temporary.”
My mind is going a mile a minute, not quite settling on one thing long enough to think of the possible answers.
“Excuse me—.” The customer to my right raps her knuckles on the counter. “My coffee?”
Right. The coffee I literally just made. I grab it and slide it across to her. She takes it with a dramatic sweep before I turn back to Wade, who has not moved an inch. There is now a queue forming behind him. Five people deep.
“Wade.” I lower my voice. “You know we can't. It's not fair on Colt. It was never fair on—.”
“About that.” He smiles, which is not the reaction I was expecting from a man I just essentially turned down. And then he tells me. About him and Colt. How they’ve patched things up. About the conversation they had recently and how things have finally started to get better between them.
My chest tightens because this whole time I hoped that stepping out of the picture would help them fix things. And somehow, it worked.
“So, you two are good?” I ask quietly, already feeling my eyes sting.
His smile softens. “We’re getting there, angel. But yeah… We’re good.”
“And what does Colt think about you being here?” I ask.
Wade's expression shifts to a quiet amusement, something fond at the edges. “Why don't you ask him yourself?” He nods past me, toward the window.
I turn. Through the glass, past the queue of mildly inconvenienced Londoners, I see him. Hands in his pockets, easy as anything, already pushing through the door.
Colt walks in and finds my eyes immediately, giving me that smile I’ve missed.
My body moves before I finish the thought, coming out from behind the counter at an alarming pace and barrelling straight into him, arms around his waist, face into his shoulder. I don't care how it looks.
“I've missed you,” I say, slightly muffled.
His arms come around me, pulling me in properly. “Missed you too, Maeve.” He says, low and quiet, just for me.
I pull away from him and look over my shoulder where Wade is watching us.
Colt follows my look. “Ha,” he says, loud enough to carry. “I got a bigger reaction than you, old man.”
Wade just shakes his head at us but stays put in the spot. Giving me and Colt a moment.
“I'm sorry,” I say, turning back to Colt. I need him to hear this. “For everything. I never meant to—.”
“It’s fine, Maeve.” He says it easily, like I haven’t been carrying an emotional backpack of guilt for the last three months. “I get it. Most of it, anyway.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Still got some processing to do.”
He steps back slightly, glancing between me and Wade with the expression of someone who has accepted an unexpected truth and is doing a genuinely admirable job of making peace with it.
“There’s definitely stuff I’m gonna have to get used to.” He gestures vaguely between us. “This being one of them.”
A laugh escapes me through the tears threatening my eyes.
“But…” He glances at Wade briefly before looking back at me. “He loves you.” His shoulders lift in a small shrug. “And I think we all deserve to be happy. So yeah… I can try.”
“Appreciate that,” Wade says from somewhere behind me.
I turn back to him, and he’s right there when I do.
I look up at him; everything else blurs into the background; the only thing in focus is this man standing in front of me, hat in his hands, eyes on me, nowhere else.
“You love me?” I ask.
I already know the answer. We have said it before. But this feels different, and I ache to hear the words again.
“Yes, angel.” He pulls me a little closer, not all the way, still enough space between us that I don’t have to crane my neck to look at him. “I love you.”
My heart does that annoying thing where it forgets how to function properly when it comes to him. But despite that, I don’t hesitate when I say, “I love you too.”
Wade closes the remaining distance fast, both hands coming up to my face, warm and steady, thumbs at my jaw. And when he kisses me, it feels like everything has clicked back into place.
Behind us, Colt clears his throat with considerable theatrical energy.
“Still weird for me,” he announces. “Just so that's on record.”
We pull apart laughing.
“Sorry,” I manage.
“Yeah,” Wade adds. “Sorry.”
Colt nods solemnly. “I'm going to go process this over there.” He takes several steps to the left. “Carry on.”
Wade's hands are still on my face. His thumbs move slowly across my cheekbones. His eyes move over me, unhurried and careful, the way they did from the very first moment we saw each other, even when we were both trying our hardest to refuse it.
“So,” he says. “You coming home or what?”
I smile at him, both of us already knowing my answer.
Wade’s hands fall from my face, sliding down to my waist as he reaches back and unties my apron for me, letting it drop to the floor without even looking at it. My eyes, too, are focused on him.
I turn, grab my bag from the hook, and head straight past the queue of waiting customers, all of them mid-complaint, not sparing them a second glance as I make for the door.
Wade takes my hand the moment I’m within reach, Colt drifting into place on my other side as I walk out of this stupid coffee shop for the very last time.
God. Fucking. Riddance.
I’m going back to Wildbrook Hollow—where wildflowers grow, whiskey is shared, and cowboys love with all their hearts.
Back where I belong.