Chloe hesitated, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and suspicion. But under Julian's unwavering gaze, the words just tumbled out. She recited her phone number, the digits feeling like a surrender.
He typed them into his phone, his thumb moving with an efficient grace. As he lowered the phone, the back of his knuckles brushed against her uninjured hand. The contact was fleeting, accidental, but it sent another shiver through her. Her mouth went dry. She could smell the clean, simple scent of laundry detergent on his clothes, a scent that mingled with his own distinct musk.
Her eyes fell to his hands. They were strong, with long, capable fingers, but what caught her attention was the watch on his wrist. It was a simple, classic design, but the dark leather band and the subtle gleam of the steel casing looked expensive. Far too expensive for a building handyman. A seed of doubt began to sprout in her mind.
She looked at his face again, really looked. The sharp angle of his jaw, the straight line of his nose, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. He was even more striking up close than he had been in the dim light of the bar. There was a familiarity to his features, a nagging sense of having seen him somewhere before, but she couldn't place it.
"I don't even know your name," she managed.
"Julian Sinclair." His thumb brushed once over the bandage, feather-light. Another jolt.
Julian pocketed his phone, then bent down and carefully picked up the broken pieces of her prototype. "I'll be in touch," he said, his voice as neutral as before. He turned and walked to the door.
He paused, holding the door open for her to step out into the hallway so he could close it behind him. As he moved aside, his shoulder brushed against her arm. The contact was like a brand, a searing heat that left her skin tingling.
The moment the door clicked shut, Chloe sagged against it, her heart pounding a frantic, irregular rhythm. The intensity of her reaction to this stranger-this handyman-was terrifying. Was her condition getting worse? Was she losing her mind?
The next morning, she woke up with a throbbing headache and a hand that ached with a dull, persistent pain. She needed coffee. Desperately. Pulling on a pair of old sweatpants and a hoodie, she stumbled out of her apartment and headed for the convenience store on the corner.
Will he call? The thought was an unwelcome intruder. Can he really fix it?
At the entrance to the store, a man was filling the tank of a black Dodge Challenger. The car was a beast, all muscle and raw power. He moved with a fluid, confident economy of motion. Chloe paid him no mind, shuffling inside to the coffee station.
She poured herself the largest size, the bitter aroma a small comfort. But when she got to the counter, she realized with a sinking feeling that she'd left her wallet upstairs.
"I got it."
The low voice behind her made her jump. It was Julian. He was standing right there, holding a bottle of water. Before she could protest, he'd already paid for her coffee.
"Thanks," she mumbled, her face flushing with embarrassment. "I'll pay you back."
"No need. Call it a neighborly gesture," Julian said, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.
"Neighbor?" Chloe froze, the coffee cup halfway to her lips.
"Apartment 6B. I just moved in last week." He gestured with his head toward their building. Her apartment was 6A. He lived directly across the hall.
"Then yesterday..." The realization hit her like a physical blow. The noise complaint. The toolbox. It was all a lie. He wasn't a handyman sent by management.
He had been playing her. He lived across the hall, had seen her at the bar, and had used her accident as an excuse to get into her apartment, into her life. What did he want?
Her body tensed, a reflexive retreat. She took a step back, putting distance between them.
Julian's eyes darkened, the hint of amusement gone. "You left in a hurry last night," he said, his voice quiet but carrying a distinct edge. "From the bar."
The bar. The handyman. The neighbor. The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. He had seen her at her most desperate, a predator sizing up তার prey. He had seen her messy apartment, her failed project, her raw, undisguised need. He knew everything.
A wave of pure, hot shame washed over her. She felt stripped bare, exposed.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped, grabbing her coffee and turning to leave.
"Your prototype is almost ready," he said to her retreating back. "I'll bring it over tonight."
Chloe didn't look back. She fled, a frantic, panicked escape, and slammed the door of her apartment behind her, the sound echoing in the silent hallway.
