Will never left Lizzie’s side. Introduced her as “my Lizzie — the woman who saved the company and then saved me.”
Carolina’s smile froze so hard it could’ve cracked the champagne flutes.
When the quartet started a slow song, Will pulled Lizzie onto the dance floor, pressed his mouth to her ear, and whispered,“Still want to know how much fun we can have with fewer clothes?” Lizzie responded with a tender nibble on his earlobe.
Lizzie reminded him of that line later back at his place, as she pulled her dress over her head and led the way to his bed in just a thong and heels.
Will watched breathless. Thanking God, Santa, and Charles for bringing Lizzie into his life.
Epilogue
(One year later-ish)
Will and Lizzie had been inseparable since Christmas.
Lizzie launched her own consulting firm, Lizzie Benítez & Associates (“We make chaos profitable”). Some people whispered she’d slept her way to the top. She let the numbers do the talking. They were loud.
Charles and Lidia were officially dating (Lidia’s longest relationship by four months and counting).
Carolina had been “promoted” to permanent special assignment in Europe. Rumor was she was thriving.
Will discovered something terrifying: the more he learned about Lizzie, the deeper he fell. Every quirk (her habit of counting in Spanish under stress), every idiosyncrasy (the way she organized pastelitos from savory to sweet, guayaba always on the right), every ridiculous observation (“Why do people put ‘urgent’ in emails like it’s a personality trait?”) made him love her more.
When Lizzie found out the little Hialeah cafeteria Will’s abuela used to run was for sale, she bought it the same week. WithWill’s money and Abuela’s recipes, they turned it back into the heart of the block: same cracked linoleum, same Virgen de la Caridad statue, same colada that could wake the dead.
Abuela basically lived there now, holding court from the corner booth, telling anyone who’d listen that her granddaughter “finally listened to her and found a man.”
Which brings us to today.
Will had spent three weeks planning.
He closed the café early (“inventory,” he lied). He’d ask Lizzie to meet him there for a New Year’s party.
Will had Giana string Christmas lights, even though there was already some Christmas decor still up, and a life-size Santa greeting guests when they entered.
Had Ignacio park the old boombox on the counter like it was 3 a.m. in the warehouse all over again.
When Lizzie walked in, confused why the place was dark, the first notes of Bésame Mucho started playing.
She froze.
Will stood by the counter in the same white linen shirt from Nochebuena, sleeves rolled up, looking nervous even though it was just her.
“Will?”
He hit play on the boombox again — their song — and walked toward her.
“I used to obsess over where I fit in. I tried to be the CEO mydad wanted but not forget that I was also my mother’s son, but I always felt like I fell short to both,” he said, voice rough. “Turns out where I fit best is with you. In warehouses. In mud. In this café that smells like guayaba and my childhood.”
He dropped to one knee.
“Lizzie Benítez, will you marry me? Here. In the place where my abuela taught me how to dance salsa and how to pray… and where I prayed for you before I even knew you?”
The ring was simple gold with two tiny engraved coordinates:
One for the warehouse.
One for the café.
