Chapter 9 009
The pasta turned to glue in my stomach. I stared at the empty chair, the cash under the salt shaker, the half-full glass of water he’d left behind. The bistro’s cheerful noise now felt like a mockery.
I didn’t answer Felix’s call. I let it go to voicemail, my thumb hovering over the screen. I couldn’t. Not with the image of Leo’s shuttered expression burned into my mind.
I paid for my half with my own card, leaving his money on the table, and walked home in a daze. The cool night air did nothing to clear my head. Every shadow in the familiar streets felt like it might contain his retreating form. He’d moved so fast.
The lobby of my building was quiet. The elevator was on the ground floor. I stood in front of it, then turned and pushed through the stairwell door. I couldn’t face the closed metal box. I needed the echo of my own footsteps.
When I reached the third floor, I paused, my hand on the door. I took a deep breath before pushing it open.
The hallway was empty. His door was closed. A wall of dark, silent wood.
I moved to my own door, key in hand. As I slid it into the lock, my eyes drifted to the spot by the trash chute. Nothing. Just empty, dim carpet.
I got inside and leaned against the door, closing my eyes. What if I told you it was my nature? His words echoed. The first quiet room that feels like a sanctuary.
And I had let Felix’s call shatter it. Not because I wanted to, but because I’d been careless. I hadn’t silenced my phone. I hadn’t prepared for the collision of my two worlds.
I tossed and turned all night, snatches of dreams filled with storm-grey eyes and the sound of a phone ringing.
The next morning, the need to do something, to fix the strange fracture, was a physical ache. I couldn’t just let it fester. But baking felt too intimate. A note under his door felt cowardly.
I remembered what he’d said. I walk to think.
An idea formed, fragile and terrifying.
I changed into my running clothes—leggings and a light jacket. I didn’t run often, but the path along the river was public, neutral ground. If I saw him, it could be a coincidence. A neighborly wave. A chance to say… something. Anything.
The morning was crisp, the sky a pale, watery blue. The river path was dotted with dog walkers, serious cyclists, and a few other joggers. I started at a slow pace, my eyes scanning ahead.
For twenty minutes, I saw no one but strangers. My nerves began to settle, replaced by a dull disappointment. Maybe he wasn’t here. Maybe he was already in some CEO meeting, the hurt of last night buried under business.
I rounded a bend where the path dipped under a stone bridge. The sound of the city faded, replaced by the rush of the river and the echo of water dripping from the bridge.
And there he was.
He stood at the river’s edge, just off the path, still as a statue. He wasn’t in running clothes. He wore dark trousers and a simple black sweater, his hands in his pockets, staring at the churning water as if it held an answer.
My feet slowed to a stop. He hadn’t seen me. I could turn around. I could pretend I never came.
But I’d come here for a reason.
I took a step off the path, my shoes crunching on the gravel. The sound was small, but his head turned immediately. Not with a jerk, but with that fluid, aware motion. His gaze locked onto me, and I saw the surprise in it, followed quickly by that familiar, guarded neutrality.
“Chloe.” He said my name like a statement, not a greeting.
“Hi.” I walked closer, stopping a few feet away. The sound of the river filled the silence between us. “I… I come here sometimes. To clear my head.”
A lie. A tiny, necessary lie.
He nodded, looking back at the water. “It is effective. The white noise. The constant motion. It simplifies things.”
We stood there, side by side, not looking at each other. The tension from the bistro was still there, a live wire strung between us.
“About last night—” I started.
“You owe no explanation,” he interrupted, his voice flat. “Your life, your calls, are your own.”
“I know that.” I took a breath. “But I’m giving one anyway. That call… it wasn’t important. It was just… someone from a different part of my life. It was bad timing.”
He was silent for a long moment, watching the water. “Felix Garrity. The hockey player.” He said the name perfectly, with no emotion.
My cheeks flushed. “You know who he is?”
“I make it a point to know.” He finally turned his head to look at me. The morning light caught the grey in his eyes, turning them silver. “When something captures my attention, I learn everything about it. Its environment. Its habits. Its potential threats.”
I swallowed. He was talking about me. He’d researched Felix because of me. The thought should have been terrifying. Instead, a strange, fierce thrill shot through me.
“He’s not a threat,” I said quietly.
“Aren’t you?”
The question hung in the damp air under the bridge. It wasn’t jealous. It was analytical. Assessing.
“I don’t want to be a puzzle you solve, Leo.” I turned to face him fully. “And I don’t want to be a quiet room you stand outside of, either.”
His mask slipped. Just a crack. I saw the raw conflict there—the instinct to observe, to maintain distance, warring with something else, something that drew him closer.
“What do you want, Chloe?” he asked, his voice a low rasp.
“I want to understand,” I said, the truth tumbling out. “I want to understand why a man who can have any penthouse in the city stands in a hallway smelling the air. Why he gives a stranger a plant. Why he looks at me like he’s trying to memorize me, and then walks away when my phone rings.”
He took a step toward me. Just one. The space between us crackled. The roar of the river faded to a distant hum. “Understanding is dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because once you see the mechanism,” he whispered, his eyes searching mine with a desperate intensity, “you cannot unsee it. And you may not like the machine.”
I held his gaze, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Try me.”
He closed his eyes for a second, as if in pain. When he opened them, the decision was made. The guard was down. What I saw there wasn’t a predator, or a CEO. It was a man, profoundly alone, standing at the edge of a precipice.
“Then have coffee with me,” he said, the words simple, but weighted with everything unsaid. “Not as neighbors. Not by chance. Tomorrow. Say yes, or say no. But do not stand in the middle any longer.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an ultimatum. A line drawn in the sand of the riverbank.
He was giving me a choice. Walk into the mystery, or walk away for good.
And for the first time, I knew my answer before I even said the word.