Chapter 12: The Curious Case of the Cinnamon Latte

It started with a coffee.

Not hers. Not the half-sweet, double-shot, almond-milk monstrosity Katherine usually ordered from the chaotic café downstairs that spelled her name as “Cateran” at least once a week.

No. This was different.

This one… appeared.

Right on her desk.

In a clean white cup. Lid sealed. No note.

She stared at it suspiciously.

“Did this… appear out of thin air?” she muttered.

Cara looked up from her computer. “What?”

“This cup. Was it always here? Am I hallucinating warm beverages now?”

Cara blinked. “You okay?”

“No, I’m questioning the metaphysical nature of coffee. Never better.”

She picked it up. Warm. Smelled like cinnamon and witchcraft.

She sipped.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “It’s perfect.”

---

Across the floor, behind glass that definitely wasn’t soundproof enough, Sebastian Mason pretended to be deeply invested in quarterly metrics. But every few seconds, his gaze flicked toward the creative department.

And when Katherine smiled into her mystery latte?

His lip did something strange.

It twitched.

Upward.

For exactly half a second.

Then he cleared his throat, scolded himself internally, and went back to being made of marble.

---

Katherine was not an idiot.

She noticed the second latte the next day. And the third, which was hazelnut. And the fourth, which was oat milk chai and tasted like autumn made love to ambition.

No one confessed.

Not HR. Not the intern. Not even Jenkins, who once tried to poison the break room with cauliflower cookies.

So, naturally, she created a suspect list.

Top of the list?

Sebastian Mason.

Because who else in this soulless capitalist fortress knew she added extra cinnamon before she’d ever said it out loud?

---

“Miss Brown,” he said on Thursday, walking past her cubicle.

“Mr. Mason,” she replied, spinning in her chair.

His tie was navy again. Subtle rebellion #2.

“I hope the team’s preparing for the branding audit next week.”

“We’re preparing something, alright.”

He paused. “Should I be concerned?”

She smiled. “Deeply.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Then: “...Good.”

He walked away.

But she saw it.

The glint of amusement.

And something else.

Warmth.

---

Later that day, she caught him staring at her notepad during a strategy meeting. It wasn’t just notes. It was doodles.

Tiny drawings of coffee cups, puns like “Bean there, done that,” and a very dramatic stick figure labeled “Me, fighting for budget approval.”

Sebastian’s eye twitched.

But he didn’t scold her.

He smiled.

Just slightly.

Then he passed her a note.

Written in his terrifyingly neat handwriting:

"That’s not how expense reports work."

She wrote back:

"Creativity doesn’t follow structure, Sebastian."

He stared at the note.

And under it, added:

"Apparently neither does your spelling."

She gasped audibly.

“Did you just sass me in Helvetica?”

He gave her a look.

She grinned.

And something inside her… fluttered.

---

Friday came with rain.

Cold. Persistent. Romantic if you were in a movie — miserable if you had bangs.

Katherine arrived looking like she’d fought a tornado. Which, in her defense, she kind of had. Umbrellas were useless. Cabs were full. And the sidewalk had tried to assassinate her heels.

By the time she reached her desk, she was dripping, flustered, and two steps from a dramatic monologue.

Instead, she found a towel.

Folded. Fresh.

With a post-it:

“Some storms don’t need fixing. Just drying off.”

No signature.

She stared at it.

Then at the glass office across the room.

Sebastian was on the phone. Not looking her way.

But he knew.

He always knew.

She wrapped the towel around her shoulders and whispered, “Oh, we are so not surviving this.”

---

By lunchtime, Katherine was ready to explode.

Not in a bad way.

In a teenage-girl-writing-heart-notes-in-her-notebook way.

Because Sebastian Mason had crossed a line.

A towel?

That was… caring.

And she wasn’t prepared.

She stormed into his office without knocking.

He looked up.

“Miss Brown.”

“Did you leave a towel on my desk?”

He blinked. “Is this a formal accusation or a thank-you?”

“Yes.”

He tilted his head. “Are you upset someone anticipated your needs?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you practicing emotional intelligence?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“You are! You’re softening. You’re becoming dangerously close to human.”

He sighed. “Would you prefer I let you catch pneumonia?”

“I’d prefer clarity, Sebastian. I operate on chaos, not confusion.”

He stood, walked around the desk, and stopped in front of her.

He was close.

Too close.

“I see,” he said. “You demand clarity.”

“Yes.”

“In that case…” He reached past her — she froze — and grabbed a binder.

Handed it to her.

“Quarterly reports. Very clear.”

She stared.

Then snorted.

Then laughed. Loudly. Obnoxiously. Right into his tie.

“Oh my God, you’re flirting with spreadsheets now.”

He smirked.

“Only the colorful ones.”

---

That weekend, Katherine dreamed about him.

She blamed the lattes.

And the tie.

And the towel.

And the fact that when he’d said “only the colorful ones,” his voice had dipped a little lower.

The dream involved an elevator, a broken button, and way too many buttons on his shirt. When she woke up Monday morning, she needed three cold showers and a deep breath.

And when she saw a new coffee waiting on her desk — this time with a heart doodled on the lid?

She almost died.

But she didn’t.

Because she was Katherine Brown. And Katherine Brown did not die from lattes.

She thrived on them.

Still, her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she picked up the cup. The heart was… cute. Whimsical. Completely off-brand for the terrifying corporate cathedral they worked in.

She glanced across the office.

Sebastian’s chair was empty.

Coward, she thought, sipping.

And then she melted.

Dark roast, honey, a touch of cardamom.

“I’m in a situationship with coffee,” she muttered.

Cara looked up. “That’s not new.”

“No, but now the coffee’s starting it.”

---

She spent the entire morning trying not to stare at Sebastian’s door, which stayed mysteriously closed.

By 11:00 AM, she gave up on subtlety, grabbed her notebook, and marched to the glass office.

She knocked once and walked in.

He was at his desk, typing something with the speed of a thousand demons.

Without looking up, he said, “You’re not scheduled.”

“Neither is emotional vulnerability,” she replied, shutting the door behind her.

That got his attention.

He looked up. Calm. Controlled.

“Something on your mind?”

She walked over and placed the coffee cup on his desk.

The little heart stared back at him.

“Adorable,” she said. “Reckless. Suspicious.”

He looked at the cup. Then at her. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“You don’t draw hearts, Sebastian. You audit them.”

He blinked. “Is that… a metaphor?”

She crossed her arms. “If you’re going to flirt, do it with conviction.”

A pause.

Then he stood, slow and deliberate, and walked around the desk.

Stopped just inches from her.

“Miss Brown,” he said, voice low, “I don’t flirt.”

“Oh no?”

“I manage.”

She stared up at him. “Is that what this is? Management through caffeine?”

His mouth twitched. Just slightly. “Is it working?”

“No,” she lied.

He took a step closer. She didn’t move.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to escalate.”

Her heart jumped. “Define escalate.”

He leaned in, like he was about to whisper something devastating—

—and then reached behind her, grabbed a file from the cabinet, and walked back to his desk.

“I meant another budget revision,” he said calmly.

She blinked. “You’re evil.”

He nodded. “Structured evil.”

And smiled.

For real this time.

---

By the time she stormed out of the office, half-flustered and half-high on his voice, she was ninety percent sure he was playing a very dangerous game.

The problem?

She wanted to play too.

But Katherine Brown didn’t lose.

Especially not to a man who wore navy ties on purpose and weaponized spreadsheets.

So she picked up her phone and texted Cara.

"Operation MasonMeltdown begins today."

---