The layout needed to support that.
I erased a line, redrew it two inches to the right. Added a notation for electrical: dedicated twenty-amp circuit for the espresso machine, separate circuit for the cooler. I'd seen what Brew & Bean's aging wiring did to their equipment and I wasn't going to repeat that mistake.
Behind the coffee bar, I'd drawn a kitchen—small, efficient, designed around the way Willow moved when she prepped pastry trays. She led with her left hand, reached with her right, and turned counterclockwise. I'd mapped her workflow months ago without realizing I was doing it. Subconscious data collection that probably qualified as creepy if I examined it too long.
I chose not to examine it too long.
Along the far wall: a community board. Cork-backed, framed in reclaimed wood from the building's original structure. Willow had one at Brew & Bean—a chaotic collage of local band flyers, poetryreadings, and business cards from regulars she was always promoting. Hers was held together with thumbtacks and optimism. This one would be built to last.
And in the back corner, near the windows where the morning sun hit best: a reading nook. Two armchairs. A low shelf. A space where a person could sit for hours and nobody would rush them. Willow had mentioned a book club once—an offhand comment, tossed out during a conversation about things she'd do if she ever had her own place. She'd said it the way people said things they'd stopped believing were possible.
I'd filed it. Apparently, I'd filed everything.
The building itself was a former commercial space on Elm Street, downtown—two stories, brick facade, built in 1940 and neglected for the past decade. Good bones. Terrible plumbing. A roof that needed replacing and a foundation that was solid despite the years of abuse. I'd walked through it a month ago with a real estate agent who couldn’t quite understand why I was fixated on this old building when there were plenty with better margins.
But this building had character. It had history. It had the same stubborn refusal to quit that reminded me of a woman who kept a dying espresso machine alive through sheer force of will.
I was in deep. The rational part of my brain—thepart that had kept me alive through a divorce, a custody arrangement, and twenty years of client negotiations—kept pointing out the obvious: I was buying a building for a woman I hadn't told I loved. A woman I'd been dating for weeks, not years. A woman who was twenty-three and might wake up tomorrow and realize she'd made a mistake.
The irrational part of my brain, which had staged a full coup since Willow Monroe moved into my apartment, didn't care.
“Something tells me that’s not the Riverside project.”
Graham stood in my doorway, coffee in each hand, wearing the face he wore when he was about to say things I didn't want to hear. I'd known the man for fifteen years. That face appeared with depressing regularity.
“You would be correct.”
“New project?” He crossed to my desk, set one coffee down, kept the other. His gaze dropped to the plans I hadn't bothered to hide. "That's the Elm Street building."
"It is."
“Any particular reason you’re drafting plans for a building we don’t own?”
“Because as of 4 p.m. yesterday, it cleared escrow. It’s my building now.”
“Yours as in…personally or owned by our company?”
“Mine. No connection to the firm. Just mine.”
“Wow.” He pulled the chair from the corner and sat. “Judging by the plans…it’s going to be a coffee shop.”
“Among other things,” I admitted with a nod. I swiveled the plans toward Graham so he could get a better look. “What do you think?”
Graham studied the layout with the quiet competence of a man who'd spent two decades reading blueprints. His eyes tracked the coffee bar, the kitchen, the community board, the reading nook. I watched him connect the dots—each design choice pointing at a person whose name I hadn't written on any of the drawings but might as well have.
"This is good work," he said. "The flow is smart. The L-shaped counter solves any bottleneck issues you might struggle with.” He tapped the reading nook. "Natural ventilation from the east-facing windows?"
"Cross-ventilation. I'm adding operable transoms above the original casements."
"Nice." He leaned back. “Am I safe to assume this sudden interest in coffee shops has something to do with the beautiful Miss Willow?”
I wasn’t going to lie. “Yes.”
"Callum."
“Don’t start. It’s my business, which is why I purchased with my own money.”
Graham held his hands up in mock defense. “Hey, I get it. I’m just saying…are you sure about this?”
