Chapter 4

Alexander Knight didn’t wait for things.

He made them happen.

Yet here he was, standing on the sidewalk outside Bean & Leaf at 11:42 a.m. Hands in the pockets of a charcoal overcoat, watching the door like some average guy hoping for a caffeine fix.

He’d cleared his schedule. Pushed a board call to tomorrow. Told Elena to hold everything unless the building was literally on fire. All because he needed to see her again before the idea of her settled into something he could dismiss.

The café was busier than last night—midday rush, laptops open, people in headphones pretending they weren’t eavesdropping on each other’s conversations. He stepped inside, the bell chiming softly overhead. Warm air hit him, thick with the smell of espresso and something baking in the back—cinnamon, maybe.

He scanned the room once. Quick. Efficient.

She wasn’t behind the counter.

A different barista,short dark hair, sharp eyes, name tag reading LILA was pulling shots for a line of three customers.

She glanced up, did a double take when she saw him, then narrowed her eyes like she was trying to place him.

Alexander ignored it. Walked straight to the front window where her paintings still hung.

The big one, the indigo bleeding into rose was still there. The smaller two beside it, too. No red sold dots. No price tags.

He stood in front of the main canvas longer than he needed to. Close enough to see the texture of the paint, thick in some places, scraped thin in others. Gold threads woven through like light breaking open a storm.

He’d stared at worse art in galleries and paid seven figures for it.

This one actually made him feel something.

Footsteps approached from behind the counter. Not hers—too quick, too light.

“Back so soon?” Lila’s voice, dry and amused. She wiped her hands on a towel. “We don’t usually get repeat customers within twelve hours unless our coffee’s laced with something illegal.”

Alexander turned. Met her gaze evenly. “I’m looking for Evelyn.”

Lila’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? She’s not on until noon.”

He glanced at his watch. Eighteen minutes.

“I’ll wait.”

Lila studied him for a beat—openly assessing. The suit. The watch. The posture that said he was used to people moving out of his way.

“You’re the guy from last night,” she said finally. Not a question.

He didn’t confirm or deny. Just held her stare.

She leaned on the counter, lowering her voice.

“Look, I don’t know what your deal is, but Ev’s a good person. Like, actually good. She’s having a rough stretch, and if you’re here to play some rich-guy games—”

“I’m here about the painting.”

Lila snorted. “Sure you are.”

He didn’t rise to it. Just reached into his coat, pulled out his wallet, and slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter.

“Large black coffee. And whatever she usually drinks when she gets here.”

Lila stared at the bill, then at him. “We don’t have hundred-dollar muffins, you know.”

“Keep the change.”

She rolled her eyes but rang it up anyway. “Take a seat, your highness. She’ll be here soon.”

He didn’t sit. He stood by the window instead, coffee in hand (bitter, strong, better than he expected), eyes on the door.

At 11:59, it opened.

Evelyn walked in shaking light rain from her hair, cheeks pink from the cold, old army jacket zipped to her chin. She carried a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, scrolling her phone as she walked.

She looked up. Saw him.

Stopped dead.

The earbuds came out slowly. One, then the other.

“Hi,” she said, cautious.

“Hi.”

She glanced around, Lila watching shamelessly from behind the counter, a couple of customers pretending not to notice—then back at him.

“You’re… here.”

“I am.”

She shifted her weight. “For coffee?”

“Partly.”

She exhaled a small laugh, more nervous than amused. “Okay. Give me a second to clock in.”

She disappeared into the back. He waited.

When she came out five minutes later, apron tied, hair twisted up in a messy knot, she looked more composed. But her eyes kept flicking to him like she couldn’t quite help it.

She walked over. Stopped a safe three feet away.

“So,” she said. “You really want the painting.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

He considered lying. Something smooth about investment potential or diversifying his collection. Instead, he went with the truth.

“Because it’s honest.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“Honest.”

“Most art I see is designed to impress. Or provoke. Or sell. Yours feels like you weren’t trying to do any of those things. You were just… saying something.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Something softened in her expression, just a fraction.

“That’s… actually a really nice thing to say.”

“It’s true.”

She glanced back at the canvas, then at him. “I haven’t priced it yet because I’m not sure I want to sell it.”

“Everything has a price.”

Her eyes snapped back to his. Sharper now. “Not everything.”

He inclined his head. “Fair. But most things do.”

She crossed her arms. “So what’s your offer, Mr. Knight?”

“Ten thousand.”

Her mouth actually dropped open. Just for a second before she caught it.

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke about money.”

She laughed—short, disbelieving.

“That canvas cost me maybe sixty bucks in supplies. I painted it in my kitchen between shifts.”

“Then you’re undercharging for your time.”

She shook her head. “This is insane.”

“Twenty-five.”

Now she really stared. “You just doubled it.”

“I want it.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know what I saw.”

She bit her lip. Looked at the painting again. He could see the war playing out across her face—want, doubt, pride, need.

Lila called from the counter: “Ev, line’s forming.”

Evelyn held up a finger to her friend, then turned back to him.

“I can’t think about this here. It’s too much.”

“Understandable.”

She hesitated. Then: “I get off at eight.”

He nodded once. “I’ll be back at eight.”

“No—wait.” She pulled out her phone, opened a new contact, handed it to him.

“Just… text me. We’ll figure out a time to talk. Somewhere neutral.”

He took the phone. Typed his number. Saved it under A. Knight.

Handed it back.

Their fingers brushed. Brief. Electric.

She pulled away first.

“I have to work,” she said.

“I’ll let you.”

He started toward the door, paused.

“Evelyn.”

She looked up five thousand dollars for a painting was nothing compared to what he was really prepared to offer.

.....

One year.

One signature.

One million dollars.

And maybe, just maybe something neither of them had signed up for.

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