Chapter 5 005
His voice in the cozy, crowded cafe felt like a private sound, meant only for me. It cut through the clatter of cups and the murmur of conversations.
“I’m fine,” I said, the words coming out too quickly, too high. I forced myself to take a step forward, out of the shadow of the hallway. “Just… the latte. Too strong, maybe.”
I was a terrible liar. Amanda’s eyes widened slightly from the booth, a silent message of what are you doing?
Leo Thorne’s gaze didn’t waver. He seemed to absorb my flimsy excuse, his head tilting just a fraction. It was that same, subtle movement from the stairwell—a predator’s attentive shift. “I see,” he said, though his tone suggested he saw everything but that. “A shame. This place is a favorite of mine for its mild roast.”
He was a regular here? A wave of irrational betrayal washed over me. This was my place. Mine and Amanda’s.
“I didn’t know you came here,” I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near accusatory.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes, which remained that intense, stormy grey. “I find the atmosphere conducive to thinking. It has a certain… calm energy.”
Was he talking about the cafe? Or was he, impossibly, talking about the energy he’d just felt from me having a minor panic attack in the bathroom? My skin prickled.
“Well, we don’t want to keep you from your thoughts,” Amanda chimed in, rescuing me. She slid out of the booth, gathering her purse. “We were actually just leaving. Right, Chlo?”
“Right. Yes.” I grabbed my own bag from the booth, careful not to brush against him as I moved. The air around him seemed denser, warmer.
“Of course,” he said, taking a respectful step back to give us space. But his eyes stayed on me. “I hope you feel better, Chloe.”
The way he said my name… it wasn’t like anyone else said it. He didn’t shorten it. He let both syllables sit in his mouth, gave them weight. Cho-lee. It felt like a caress and an interrogation at the same time.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, heading for the door. I could feel his gaze on my back like a physical pressure.
The second the cafe door swung shut behind us, the cool outside air hitting my face, Amanda grabbed my arm.
“What. Was. That?” she breathed, her voice full of thrilled astonishment. “Chloe, he was asking about you! He said he’d noticed you seemed… ‘distracted’ lately. He used that word! Who notices that?”
“A stalker notices that,” I shot back, walking quickly toward our building. My heart was still doing a frantic dance. “He’s watching me. I told you it was creepy.”
“It wasn’t creepy! It was concerned! He was polite, he was gorgeous, and he was genuinely asking if you were okay. When you didn’t come back, he actually came over to check. That’s not stalker behavior, that’s gentleman behavior!”
“Gentlemen don’t sniff doors, Amanda.”
“You have got to let that go! He had a cold!” She skipped a little to keep up with my pace. “Did you see the way he looked at you? It was like… intense. But not in a bad way. In a ‘I-have-never-seen-a-sunset-until-this-moment’ way.”
I groaned. “Now you’re writing his poetry for him. He’s just a guy. A weird, intense, confusing guy who lives in my hallway for nine more days.”
“Eight days now,” she corrected, a sly smile on her face. “Time’s ticking. You should invite him over for tea. A neighborly thank-you for the hotel suite.”
“I will do no such thing.”
We reached the lobby of our building. The familiar, slightly worn surroundings were a comfort. “Are you coming up?” I asked, hitting the elevator button.
“Nah, I’m going to go luxuriate in my five-star bathtub. Remember, you’re my spy on the ground floor! I want updates!” She waved and headed back toward the street.
The elevator arrived, empty. I stepped in, leaning against the mirrored wall as the doors closed. Finally, alone. I replayed the encounter in my head. The look. The voice. The way he’d positioned himself, waiting for me.
Amanda saw a romance. All I felt was a deep, unnerving sense of being studied. Like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve.
The elevator dinged on the third floor. The doors slid open to the quiet hallway. And there, right in the middle of the carpeted floor between his door and mine, sat a single, small potted plant.
It was a terracotta pot with a lush, green succulent inside—a kind of deep jade-colored rosette. It wasn’t fancy, but it was vibrant and healthy. There was no note.
I walked over to it slowly and knelt down. The soil was damp. Freshly watered. It hadn’t been here an hour ago when I left.
A gift? For who?
My door was right here. His door was right there. It could have been for either of us. But a feeling, a deep, instinctual pull, told me it was for me.
He knew I was a botanical illustrator. He’d seen the plant sketches pinned to my fridge the day of the mix-up meeting, when my door had been open. He’d noticed.
This wasn’t a grand gesture. It was quiet. Observant. Personal in a way that felt more invasive than flowers or a card. This meant he’d not only seen a detail of my life, he’d remembered it, and he’d acted on it.
I picked up the pot. It was cool and solid in my hands. The plant was beautiful, the perfect specimen. I should leave it out here. I should knock on his door and give it back, tell him I couldn’t accept it.
But I didn’t.
Holding my breath, I turned the key in my lock, stepped inside my apartment, and closed the door. I set the little pot carefully on my windowsill, where the afternoon light would hit it.
I stared at it, the green stark against the white paint. A peace offering from the storm. A quiet message I didn’t know how to read.
And I had absolutely no idea what to do next.