“Coming!” My voice comes out higher than normal.
I cross the living room and put my hand on the doorknob. Take a breath.
You can do this.
I open the door.
Brody Kane stands in my hallway in dark jeans and a gray Henley under a black wool coat, beanie in one hand, two to-go cups in the other. His dark hair is slightly messed where the hat was, and his blue-gray eyes meet mine with an expression that’s equal parts nervous and sheepish. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks—from the cold, probably, but maybe also from embarrassment.
“Hi,” he says very charmingly. Handsome smile. And then the words start pouring out. “Um. Good morning. You look…” His eyes travel over my haphazard appearance, his lips tugging at the corners. “You look great.” He pauses a moment and starts when he looks down at the coffee in his hands, as though just remembering it was there. “Oh. I brought coffee…” He starts to hand it over, then pulls back, looking for the label. “I…don’t know what kind this is—I didn’t know what you’d like. Had to guess.” He thrusts it toward me. “Sorry. I’m…I’m not super great at this kind of thing.”
I think it’s the least suave thing he’s ever done. And it’s probably the most adorable.
I take the cup, and our fingers brush—barely a touch, but I feel it everywhere. The smell of the coffee hits me—rich, dark, with hints of peppermint and chocolate. The cups have the distinctive logo I’d recognize anywhere: the small brass plaque design from Brew & Rumor.
“You went to Brew & Rumor?” Surprise colors my voice. “I love that place.”
He shrugs a little.
“Is this candy cane mocha?” I take a sip. It’s perfect. Exactly what I’d have ordered myself, the peppermint and chocolate and espresso mixing in that way only Brew & Rumor manages. “How did you?—”
His cheeks get redder. “I, uh, your business page. It links to your—” He clears his throat. “I may have looked at yourInstagram. After yesterday. Just to—” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly mortified. “Wow, that sounds creepy. I swear I’m not a stalker. I just wanted to make sure you were—” He stops. “I’m making this worse, aren’t I?”
“You stalked my Instagram,” I say, but there’s no heat in it. More like wonder.
He attempts a smile, self-deprecating and embarrassed. “Is that bad? You post about that place a lot. The typewriter. The vintage teacups. It seemed…” He shrugs helplessly. “I wanted to get it right. The coffee. As an apology. For—everything.”
I don’t know what to say, so I take another sip. The warmth spreads through my chest.
He looks relieved I’m not slamming the door in his face. He shifts his weight. “Can I come in? I’m starting to lose feeling in my extremities.”
From down the hall, I hear Jessa’s door creak open slightly.
I step aside. “Yeah. Okay.”
He enters with visible relief, and suddenly my small apartment feels even smaller. He’s tall—taller than my memory of Barcelona allowed—and his presence fills the space in a way that makes me aware of every secondhand piece of furniture, every bill on the counter, every sign that I’m barely holding my life together.
I close the door. The click sounds loud.
He sets his cup on my counter, carefully, away from the wedding files and the stack of bills. His eyes flick to the overdue student loan notice on top. I see the moment he registers it, but he looks away quickly.
“Nice place.” His eyes take in the string lights, the gallery wall, the vision boards. “Very—” He stops himself. “Actually, I guess I don’t know you well enough to say what’s very you. But…I think it is.”
“It’s okay.” I move to the couch. He stays standing. “It is very me. At least, the version of me that’s trying to make something work on a shoestring budget.”
“You left Maple Lake for this,” he says quietly. “To start your business.”
“I moved in with Jessa two years ago.” I wrap both hands around the cup. “Did odd jobs to get by. But it wasn’t until I started planning Maya’s wedding that I even considered event planning as a job. So I scraped together my savings and decided to go all in on that. ”
“Is it working?”
The honesty slips out. “I’m here, aren’t I? Still trying. That has to count for something.”
His expression softens in a way that makes my chest tight. “It counts for a lot.”
The radiator clanks. Outside, the wind rattles the window.
“I thought about you,” he says. “After Barcelona. I thought about trying to find you. But Maple Lake seemed far, and I didn’t have your last name, and I convinced myself it was better to just—” He stops. “Let you go.”
