Chapter 367
Alexander
The highway stretched before me, concrete and asphalt blurring beneath my tires as I pushed the Aston Martin to uncomfortable speeds. My knuckles whitened around the steering wheel while my mind raced faster than the
car.
What the hell was I doing? Chasing after a woman who’d walked away without so much as a goodbye?
“This is beneath you, Alexander,” I muttered, casing off the accelerator slightly as I passed a state trooper. The last thing I needed was to explain to some cop why New York’s most eligible bachelor was speeding to Connecticut like a teenager late for prom. 1
The GPS informed me I was thirty minutes from my destination. My stomach clenched in a way it hadn’t since my first major acquisition meeting. Alexander Knight, nervous about seeing a former employee. Pathetic.
I flipped through radio stations, unable to settle on anything. Classical. Pop. Talk radio. Nothing could distract me from the ridiculous errand I’d embarked upon.
“Harper’s Haven,” I said aloud, testing the name on my tongue. It sounded like her: warm, inviting, just a touch whimsical. The kind of place where people lingered over coffee and pastries, not the sleek, minimalist coffee chains I frequented in Manhattan.
The scenery changed as I drove, with skyscrapers giving way to suburbs and then the charming small–town aesthetic of Connecticut. Maple–lined streets, white picket fences, and the American dream packaged and tied with a bow.
I slowed as I entered the town, following the GPS directions. Main Street looked like something from a Hallmark movie, with quaint storefronts, American flags, and people actually nodding to each other as they passed on the sidewalk.
“Turn right onto Maple Street,” the GPS instructed.
I complied, scanning the buildings. And then I saw it.
Harper’s Haven. The sign was hand–painted in a soft blue that reminded me of Madison’s favorite dress. The café had large windows and outdoor seating where several patrons sat enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Fairy lights hung from the awning, ready to illuminate the space come evening.
It was exactly as I’d pictured it. Exactly Madison.
I parked across the street, keeping the engine running while I debated my next move. The smart thing would be to turn around and drive back to New York. Forget this moment of weakness. Forget Madison Harper.
Instead, I cut the engine.
Through the windows, I could make out a busy café. People were chatting, working on laptops, and enjoying what looked like homemade pastries. But from this distance, I couldn’t tell if Madison was among them.
“What now, genius?” I asked myself, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel.
1/5
A waitress moved past the window carrying a tray of coffee. Not Madison. Another staff member wiped down a table. Not Madison either.
I checked my watch. 3:17 PM. Maybe she wasn’t working today. Maybe this wasn’t even her café. Maybe this entire trip was the most idiotic thing I’d done since that tequila incident in college.
“Fuck it,” I muttered, getting out of the car.
The bell above the door jingled as I entered, immediately drawing the attention of several patrons. I wasn’t dressed for small–town Connecticut; my tailored suit and polished shoes screamed “Manhattan.” I ignored the curious glances and approached the counter.
The café smelled like fresh coffee, vanilla, and something baking with cinnamon. It was cozy without being cluttered and stylish without being pretentious. Every detail, from the locally made pottery mugs to the fresh flowers on each table, spoke of careful consideration.
A young woman greeted me from behind the counter. “Welcome to Harper’s Haven! What can I get you today?”
I scanned the café quickly. No Madison. My chest tightened with something that might have been disappointment.
“Just a black coffee,” I replied, not bothering to study the extensive menu on the wall behind her.
“Small, medium, or large?” she asked cheerfully.
“Large.”
“For here or to go?”
“To go.”
As she turned to prepare my order, I surveyed the café more thoroughly. There was no sign of Madison anywhere. The staff all seemed to be college–aged and efficient, but lacked the precise grace that had always characterized Madison’s movements.
“That’ll be $3.75,” the young woman said, setting a cup on the counter.
I handed her a twenty. “Keep the change.”
Her eyes widened. “Wow, thanks! That’s super generous.‘
11
I nodded, taking the coffee. The warmth seeped through the cardboard cup into my palm as I turned to leave. Every instinct told me to ask about Madison, to verify if she actually owned this place, but the words stuck in my
throat.
What would I even say? “Excuse me, does a woman named Madison Harper own this café? About this tall, beautiful, and a smile that could stop traffic?” 1
I’d sound like a stalker.
I paused at the door, coffee in hand, debating. The café was busy, filled with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Madison’s kind of place.
2/5
Unless it wasn’t her place at all.
The thought struck me suddenly. What if Anthony had been messing with me? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d pulled some elaborate prank. The man once convinced me I’d agreed to donate a kidney to his fictional cousin just to see how far I’d go with the pre–testing.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, earning a startled look from a nearby patron.
I pulled out my phone, ready to call Anthony and unleash a tirade that would make a sailor blush. But then I hesitated. If this were a prank, calling would only confirm how thoroughly I’d fallen for it.
I pushed the door open, the bell jingling cheerfully as if mocking me, and stepped onto the sidewalk. The afternoon sun felt too bright and cheerful for my darkening mood.
Maybe I should go back inside and just ask. A simple, direct question. “Is Madison Harper the owner?” Five words. Not difficult.
I turned back toward the café, resolve firming. Then I stopped.
What if she was there? What if she wasn’t? Either way, did I really want to face the truth?
“This is ridiculous,” I said to myself, taking a gulp of coffee. It was good. Really good, actually. Rich and smooth, without the burnt aftertaste that chain stores often had.
Maybe Anthony just sent me to a random coffee shop with a similar name to mess with my head. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed. What better way to get under my skin than to send me chasing ghosts?
“Bastard,” I grumbled, pulling out my phone again.
I’d just call him, tell him I knew it was a joke, and be done with it. Move on with my life. Go back to New York and my engagement that never seemed to end and my penthouse that never felt like home.
I scrolled to Anthony’s number but didn’t press call. Instead, I looked back at the café. Harper’s Haven. A cute name for a cute café. It didn’t mean anything.
Madison Harper was one of the most common names in America. Probably. I hadn’t actually checked that statistic, but it sounded right.
I finished my coffee in three large gulps and tossed the cup in a nearby trash can. This had been a waste of time. A fool’s errand. Anthony was probably sitting in his Connecticut clinic right now, laughing his ass off at the thought of me driving all this way for nothing.
I pulled out my keys, determined to drive back to New York and put this whole ridiculous episode behind me.
That’s when I heard it.
A silver SUV had just pulled up in front of the café. The driver’s door opened, and a woman stepped out, Madison. My Madison. Her hair had grown longer, falling in soft waves past her shoulders, and she wore a simple sundress.
She looked… happy. Relaxed in a way I’d rarely seen her in New York.
3/5
As I stood frozen on the sidewalk, the passenger door opened, and a man emerged. Tall, athletic build, with the casual confidence of someone who had never doubted his place in the world.
He said something I couldn’t hear, and Madison laughed again, that full–bodied laugh I’d heard so rarely during our time together.
I felt something twist in my chest, sharp and painful. A strange cocktail of emotions washed over me: jealousy, regret, and something deeper I refused to name.
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
