Love, signed in the City.

The espresso machine hissed like it was personally offended, spitting out another shot that smelled burnt before it even hit the cup.

Evelyn Harper wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a faint streak of steamed milk across her skin. Tuesday night crowd half tourists, half locals pretending they weren’t tourists and every single one of them wanted something complicated.

“Extra-hot oat-milk latte with two pumps sugar-free vanilla and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top only, please,” the woman in front of her said, not looking up from her phone.

Evelyn forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Got it.”

She turned to steam the milk, catching her reflection in the shiny metal of the machine. Hair twisted up in a messy knot, apron stained with today’s roster of spills, dark circles that no amount of concealer could hide anymore.

Twenty-seven looked a lot different when rent was three weeks late and your last painting sold for the price of a decent brunch.

The café Bean & Leaf was cute in that over-curated Brooklyn way. Exposed brick, Edison bulbs, local art on the walls. Tonight, the art was hers. Three canvases hung in the front window, abstract storms of color she’d poured her insomnia into over the last month.

The little sign she’d painted by hand read: One Night Only – Evelyn Harper.

So far, zero people had asked about them.

She handed off the latte, rang up the next order, and tried not to think about the red-stamped envelope waiting in her mailbox back home.

FINAL NOTICE. The super had slipped it under her door yesterday morning with a sigh that said, I like you, kid, but I got bills too.

Lila, her best friend and coworker, bumped her hip as she reached for the syrups.

“You okay? You’ve got that ‘I’m calculating how many shifts it’ll take to not be homeless’ face again.”

Evelyn snorted. “Only because I am.”

“Still nothing from the gallery?”

“Nope. Radio silence.” She’d submitted to three places last month. All rejections, or worse—no reply at all.

Lila lowered her voice. “You could always ask your mom..”

“No.” The word came out sharper than she meant. Evelyn softened it with a tired smile. “We’re not doing that again.”

Lila didn’t push. She just squeezed Evelyn’s arm before moving to the register.

The rush finally slowed around nine-thirty. Evelyn untied her apron, grabbed a rag, and started wiping down the front counter.

Outside, the city glowed, taxis honking, people laughing on their way to bars she couldn’t afford. Across the street, the skyscrapers loomed like giants, all glass and light and money.

Her gaze snagged on the tallest one. Sleek, modern, the kind of building that didn’t even bother with a name just an address people whispered like it mattered. Someone up there was probably drinking wine that cost more than her rent, looking down at the rest of the world like it was a snow globe.

She wondered, not for the first time, what it felt like to stand that high and not feel like you were falling.

The bell above the door chimed. She glanced up and froze.

A man stepped inside, shaking light rain from an umbrella that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. Tall. Stupidly tall.

Dark coat open over a charcoal suit that fit like it had been invented for him. Hair a little windswept, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He looked like he’d walked off a billboard and straight into the wrong zip code.

He scanned the room once, quick and assessing, then his eyes landed on her paintings in the window.

And stayed there.

Evelyn’s stomach did a weird flip. People looked at her art all the time usually with polite confusion, but this guy studied it like he was reading something important.

He walked over to the largest canvas, the one she’d almost not hung because it felt too raw. Indigo bleeding into rose, gold threads pulling through the chaos like someone reaching for light.

He tilted his head. Didn’t touch it. Just looked.

She should say something. Welcome him. Ask if he wanted coffee. But her voice stuck somewhere behind the sudden thud of her pulse.

After a long moment, he turned.

And looked straight at her.

Gray eyes. Storm-cloud gray. The kind that made you forget what you were about to say.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just held her gaze like he was trying to decide something.

Then he walked toward the counter.

Right toward her.

Evelyn’s hand tightened around the rag. Heart kicking against her ribs like it wanted out.

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she caught the faint scent of rain and something expensive—cedar, maybe. Or money.

“Evening,” he said. Voice low, smooth, like bourbon over ice.

She managed to find her tongue. “Hi. We’re technically closing in ten, but I can still make you something if you want.”

His gaze flicked to her name tag, then back to her face. “Actually, I came about the art.”

Oh.

Of course.

Not her. The paintings.

She swallowed the ridiculous pinch of disappointment . “Yeah? They’re… mine.”

“I know.”

Two words. Quiet. Certain.

He glanced back at the canvas. “How much for the one in the middle?”

Her brain short-circuited. “It’s—uh—not really for sale tonight. This is more of a showcase thing.”

He turned to her again. “Everything’s for sale. Name your price.”

Jesus. Who talked like that?

She laughed, a little nervous. “I don’t even know you.”

“Alexander Knight.” He offered his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She stared at it for half a second big, steady, no ring, before shaking it. His grip was warm. Firm. Lingered just a bit too long.

“Evelyn Harper,” she said. “And I’m serious. It’s not priced yet.”

He nodded once, like that settled something. Then he reached into his coat, pulled out a sleek black card, and slid it across the counter.

“My number. When you decide on a price...call.”

She picked it up. Heavy stock. Just a name and a phone number. No title. No company. Like he didn’t need them.

“I’ll… think about it.”

He gave the painting one last look, then her.

“Do that.”

And then he was gone, umbrella snapping open as he stepped back into the rain.

Evelyn stood there, staring at the empty doorway, card pinched between her fingers.

Lila appeared at her side. “Who the hell was that?”

“No idea,” Evelyn murmured.

But something told her she was about to find out.

.

.

.