Chapter 112
Chapter 112
Neema stood in the middle of her new café with her hands on her hips, a smudge of flour on her cheek, and hope humming through her veins.
The space smelled like fresh paint, sawdust, and sugar. Real sugar, vanilla, and butter, and the faint ghost of cinnamon that clung to her clothes no matter how many times she washed them. Sunlight streamed in through the wide front windows, catching on the polished concrete floor and the long wooden counter that still needed sealing. Boxes were stacked everywhere, labeled in her handwriting: PLATES, CUPS, DON’T DROP THIS.
It wasn’t finished. But it was hers.
She reached up on her toes to adjust a light fixture that refused to sit straight, muttering under her breath. “If you fall on my head, I swear I will sue you for emotional damage.”
The bell above the door jingled.
Neema froze. She hadn’t heard a car pull up. Hadn’t heard footsteps. Her heart did that annoying little flip it had learned to do without asking permission. A dull, lingering fear made her breath hitch just for a moment before she reminded herself she no longer had threats.
She turned and immediately relaxed.
Quinton stood just inside the doorway, hands in his pockets, dressed too well for a place that still had plastic covering half the floor. His dark eyes swept the room slowly, taking everything in: the half-installed shelves, the chalkboard menu leaning against the wall, the dusting of flour like snow across the prep counter.
Then his gaze landed on her. And softened.
“There you are,” he said.
Neema raised an eyebrow. “You say that like I’ve been lost for years.”
He shrugged, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “I missed you.”
Her lips twitched. “It’s been… What? Four hours?”
“Longest four hours of my life.”
She snorted and went back to the counter, scooping flour into a bowl. “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m romantic,” he corrected, walking closer. “There’s a difference.”
He leaned against the counter, watching her work like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Neema could feel his eyes on her hands, on the way she moved with calm confidence, like the space already belonged to her.
“You came all this way just to stare?” she asked.
“I came all this way to make sure you remembered to eat.”
She laughed softly. “I ate.”
“When?”
She hesitated.
He narrowed his eyes. “Neema.”
“Fine. I had coffee.”
“That is not food.”
“That’s practically a joke coming from you.”
Quinton reached out, dipped a finger into the flour bowl, and, before she could stop him, flicked it at her.
The white puff landed squarely on her nose.
Neema stared at him, mouth agape.
He froze. “I can explain.”
“Oh, you will,” she said calmly, then dipped her own hand into the flour and threw it right back.
It hit his chest. Exploded beautifully.
For a second, there was silence.
Then Quinton laughed. A full, surprised laugh that filled the unfinished café.
“Oh, it’s like that?” he said.
Shaking her head, she backed away slowly. “You started it.”
He grabbed the bag of flour.
Neema yelped. “Quinton, don’t you dare!”
Too late.
Flour rained down like chaos incarnate. It coated her hair, her shoulders, the air itself. She shrieked, laughing despite herself, and retaliated with a handful straight to his face.
They circled each other, slipping slightly on the dusted floor, laughter echoing off bare walls. Neema hadn’t laughed like this in a long time, not the free, breathless kind that made her ribs ache and her cheeks hurt.
Quinton lunged.
She squealed as he caught her around the waist, his floury hands leaving prints on her shirt. She tried to squirm away, but he was stronger, solid, and warm and infuriatingly steady.
“You’re ruining my workspace,” she protested.
“You love it.”
He tugged her closer.
Flour dusted off them in little clouds as their bodies met. Her hands landed on his chest, meaning to push him away, but she didn’t.
Instead, she felt his breath brush her ear.
“I really did miss you,” he murmured.
Her laughter faded into something softer. Slower.
She tilted her head up. “You’re standing in my future bakery covered in flour.”
“I’ve been in worse places.”
She smiled. “Liar.”
He leaned in.
The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was warm and familiar, tasting faintly of coffee and sugar and something that was just him. Her hands slid up his arms, leaving white streaks on his sleeves, and he kissed her deeper, like he had nowhere else to be.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Neema thought about the mess. About the flour on the floor, the counter, and probably in her hair for the next three business days.
But she didn’t care.
Quinton rested his forehead against hers when they finally pulled apart, both of them breathing a little harder.
“Your café is beautiful,” he said quietly.
Emotion rose in her chest, sudden and thick. “It’s getting there.”
“So are we,” he said.
She smiled, then noticed him glance around, really look around, at the space again.
Then, without warning, he stepped back.
Neema blinked. “What are you doing now?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, Quinton dropped to one knee on the flour-dusted floor of the unfinished café.
Her heart stopped.
“Quinton…?”
He looked up at her, eyes steady, voice calm in a way that made her breath hitch.
“I don’t have a ring,” he said. “I didn’t plan this. And I know you hate grand speeches.”
That was true. Very true.
“But I also know this,” he continued. “I love you. With or without paperwork. With or without promises. So…” He took a breath. “Marry me. Or don’t. I’ll still love you.”
Neema stared at him.
Her café. Her mess. Her flour-covered, ridiculous, wonderful man kneeling in the middle of it all. Her chest felt too full. She laughed. Then her eyes burned.
“Only if you wear a tie once,” she said.
Quinton frowned. “Once?”
“At least once,” she insisted.
He broke into a grin. “Deal.”
She pulled him up by the collar and kissed him, right there between paint cans and dreams, flour clinging to both of them like proof that some of the best moments in life were never planned at all.