“Even if it’s because I think you deserve it?”
She shakes her head. “I want this to be mine. I want to know I did it. I need to. If I let you pay for it, it’ll always be your place, not mine.” She bites her lip, looking out the window again. “You understand, right?”
I do. But I still wish she’d let me give her the money.
But maybe there’s a middle ground…
I set the binder down gently between us. “What if I made you a deal?”
She narrows her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “I’m listening.”
“I’ll invest,” I say. “Silently. You keep controlling interest. Hell, keep ninety percent. But if you need a safety net, I’ll be there.” I hesitate, trying to find the right words. “It’s not about owning you, Georgia. It never was. I just want you to win.”
She stares at me for a long time, weighing the offer.
Finally, she sighs. “Twenty percent. You can have twenty, but I run everything. And if I say no to something, you have to accept it. Non-negotiable.”
I extend my hand. “Deal.”
She shakes it, her palm warm and dry, and for a second, everything around me melts away. We sit there, hands clasped, sunlight on our faces, the future mapped out in front of us.
And I fucking love how it looks.
Georgia blinks, and I realize suddenly there are tears in her eyes. “No one’s ever trusted me like this,” she says. “But you just…do.”
“You deserve to be treated like the amazing woman you are.” The words sound a little cliché, maybe. But I mean them.
She laughs and wipes her eyes. “I’m such a mess.”
I let go of her hand, then wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Nah. You’re the best damn thing in this neighborhood, and everyone’s about to find out.”
She leans her head against me, and for a minute, we sit, watching the city go by. When a kid on a scooter wipes out in front of the window, she winces, then laughs as the kid pops back up and takes off again.
“That’ll be us,” she says. “Falling on our asses and getting up again.”
“Long as there’s coffee and good sex, we’ll survive.”
Georgia gives the space one more look, her gaze tracing every imperfection. “I want to walk it one more time,” she says. “Come on.”
She stands, and I follow, watching as she moves through the light, arms spread like she’s already welcoming customers. She stops behind the future counter, pantomiming pouring coffee. “See?” she calls. “It’s perfect. I’ll make the espresso, you can… I don’t know, yell at the staff or something.”
“Boss people around?” I ask, feigning offense. “Never.”
She giggles, then moves to the kitchen area, tracing lines in the air. “The first thing I’m baking here is cinnamon rolls. Just for us.”
I imagine the smell, the warmth, the way she might fuss over a recipe for weeks before pronouncing it worthy. She’ll have funky art on the wall and maybe even a chalkboard sign with a daily special.
And I can’t help but love that idea. It’s so…Georgia.
We finish walk-through number two and head for the door then. She locks up and pulls her phone from her pocket.
“Wait,” she says. She snaps a picture of the façade, the old awning, the cracked sign.
I look at her. “You making a before and after?”
She peers up at me, a sweet smile tugging at her lips. “I’m making aforever. This is the start. The very first day.”
She tucks her arm in mine, and we start walking up the block. I can’t help glancing back over my shoulder, picturing what this place will look like in a year. Infive.
