A faint clink of porcelain stirred Kingsley from sleep.

He blinked groggily, adjusting to the golden slant of morning light spilling through unfamiliar blinds. For a disoriented moment, he didn’t know where he was. The couch beneath him was lumpy. The air smelled faintly of lavender and coffee. And the blanket wrapped around him wasn’t his.

Then he remembered—Katherine. Brooklyn. The long night on her doorstep. The way she’d finally opened the door around 2:30 a.m. and ushered him ...