Chapter 15 - Coffee by the Harbor
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He walked slowly toward the balcony railing, keeping a respectful distance between us as he handed me the hot cup.
I took a small sip. It was perfect.
We stood side by side, looking out over the dark blue water of the harbor, watching the distant lights of cargo ships moving slowly toward the Atlantic.
“How is the housing project going?” I asked, breaking the comfortable silence.
“Forty-eight families moved in last month,” Weston said, a genuine, warm sparkle returning to his eyes. “No luxury granite. No imported marble. Just solid, warm, safe homes for people who needed a break. It’s the best work I’ve ever done in my life.”
“I read Maya’s quarterly report,” I noted. “She mentioned you helped secure the city permits.”
Weston laughed softly—a low, genuine sound. “Maya reminds me every single day that she should have been running the firm ten years ago. And she’s completely right. Working under her has been the most educational experience of my career.”
I turned my body slightly to face him. “And your mother?”
Weston took a breath, turning his cup in his hands. “Claudia is... changing. Slowly. She volunteers at a community center twice a week now. She complains about the coffee there every single time, but she hasn't missed a day in six months.”
I let out a light laugh. “That sounds like Claudia.”
Weston looked at me then, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt entirely different from our past. There was no ownership in his gaze. No expectation. Just deep, profound respect.
“I didn't come out here to corner you, Elowen,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going to ask you for another chance.”
“Good,” I said gently.
He offered a soft, crooked smile. “I was actually going to ask if you’d be open to having coffee with me next Thursday. At a real café. Not a conference terrace.”
I looked down at the paper cup in my hand, then back up into his eyes.
“This appears to be coffee, Weston.”
“This is street-cart coffee,” he countered smoothly. “It doesn't count as a proper conversation.”
May you like
The ocean breeze swept past us, carrying the scent of salt and rain. I looked at the man standing beside me—a man who had been stripped of his pride, broken down to his foundation, and had spent two years quietly rebuilding himself without complaining.
“Thursday at ten,” I said softly. “Don't be late.”
