inexplicable tension blanketing the air. He slid a brief glance in my direction before refocusing on the road. “Not always.” Instead of dissolving, the tension thickened and slipped into my veins. Hot and restless, like an ember waiting for a breath of oxygen to fan it to life. Mission failed. I turned my head and stared out the windshield, too thrown off by the day’s events to attempt more conversation. The nerves scaling their way up my chest and into my throat didn’t help. I was supposed to be the cool, calm one, the one who saw the silver lining in every cloud and remained levelheaded no matter the situation. That was the image I’d projected most of my life because that was what was expected of me as an Alonso. An Alonso didn’t suffer from anxiety attacks or spend their nights worrying about every little thing that could go wrong the next day. An Alonso didn’t seek therapy or air their dirty laundry to a stranger. An Alonso was supposed to be perfect. I twisted my necklace around my finger until it cut off the circulation. My parents would probably love Christian. On paper, he was as perfect as they came. Rich. Good-looking. Well-mannered. I resented it almost as much as I resented the way he dominated the space around us, his presence pouring into every nook and crevice until it was the only thing I could concentrate on. I fixed my eyes on the road ahead, but my lungs were filled with the scent of his cologne and my skin thrummed with awareness at the way his muscles flexed with each turn of the wheel. I shouldn’t have gotten in the car. Besides the warmth, the only upside was that I would get home to my shower and bed sooner. I couldn’t wait— “The plants are doing well.” The statement was thrown out so casually and unexpectedly it took me several seconds to realize that 1） someone had broken the silence, and 2） that someone was, in fact, Christian and not a figment of my imagination. “Excuse me?” “The plants in my apartment.” He stopped at a red light. “They’re doing well.” What did that… oh. Comprehension dawned, followed by a tiny flicker of pride. “I’m glad.” I gave him a tentative smile now that the conversation was in safe, neutral territory. “They just need a little love and attention to thrive.” “And water.” I blinked at his obvious, deadpan statement. “And water.” The words hung between us for a moment before a laugh broke free from my throat and Christian’s mouth curved into the tiniest of smiles. The air finally lightened, and the knot in my chest loosened a smidge. When the light turned green, the powerful rumble of the engine nearly drowned out his next words. “You have a magic touch.” My cheeks warmed, but I responded with a small shrug. “I like plants.” “Perfect person for the job, then.” His plants had been on life support when I took over their care in exchange for keeping my current rent. After my friend and ex-roommate Jules moved out last month to live with her boyfriend, my options were either get another roommate or move out of the Mirage, since I couldn’t afford to cover both portions of our rent. I’d grown attached to the Mirage, but I would rather downgrade my home than live with a stranger. My anxiety couldn’t handle that. Christian had already lowered the monthly rent for us when we first toured the apartment and mentioned the regular price was out of our budget, so I’d been shocked when he’d proposed our current arrangement after I brought up the possibility of moving out. It was a little suspicious, but he was friends with my other friend, Bridget’s husband which made accepting his offer easier. I’d been taking care of his plants for five weeks and nothing terrible had happened. I never even saw him when I went upstairs. I just let myself in, watered the plants, and left.
“How did you know I could do it?” He could’ve proposed any number of tasks—run his errands, do his laundry, clean his house （though he already had a full-time housekeeper）。 The plant thing was oddly specific. “I didn’t.” Disinterest and a thread of something imperceptible twined through
his voice. “It was a lucky coincidence.” “You don’t seem like someone who believes in coincidence.” Christian’s lack of sentimentality bled through in everything he did and wore—the sharp lines of his suit, the calm precision of his words, the cool detachment of his gaze. They were the traits of someone who worshipped logic, power, and cold, hard pragmatism. Not something as nebulous as coincidence. For some reason, Christian found that funny. “I believe in it more than you think.” Intrigue kindled at his self-deprecating tone. Despite having access to his apartment, I knew maddeningly little about him. His penthouse was a study in flawless design and luxury, but it contained little to no personal effects. “Care to share?” I tried. Christian pulled into the Mirage’s private garage and parked in his reserved spot near the back entrance.
No answer. Then again, I hadn’t expected one. Christian Harper was a man cloaked in rumors and shadows. Even Bridget didn’t know much about him, only his reputation. We didn’t speak again as we passed through the entrance and into the lobby. At six foot three, Christian had a good five inches on me, but I was still tall enough to match his long strides. Our steps fell into perfect sync against the marble floors. I’d always been a bit self-conscious about my height, but Christian’s powerful presence wrapped around like me a security blanket, drawing attention away from my Amazonian frame. “No more walking in a blizzard, Ms. Alonso.” We stopped by the bank of elevators and faced each other. His shadow of a smile returned, all lazy charm and confidence. “I can’t have one of my tenants dying of hypothermia. It would be bad for business.”
Another unexpected laugh rustled my throat. “I’m sure you’ll find someone to replace me in no time.” I wasn’t sure whether I owed my slight breathlessness to the cold lingering in my lungs or the full impact of standing so close to him. I wasn’t interested in Christian romantically. I wasn’t interested in anyone romantically; between the magazine and my blog, I didn’t have time to even think about dating. But that didn’t mean I was immune to his presence. Something flared bright in those whiskey eyes before it cooled. “Likely not.” The mild breathlessness transformed into something heavier that strangled my voice.
Every sentence out of his mouth was a code I couldn’t crack, imbued with a hidden meaning only he was privy to while I was left to scramble in the dark. I’d talked to Christian three times in my life: once when I signed my lease, once in passing at Bridget’s wedding, and once when we discussed my sans-Jules rent situation. All three times, I’d left more unsettled than before. What were we talking about again? It’d been less than a minute since Christian’s response, but that minute had stretched so slow it might as well have been an eternity. “Christian.” A deep, slightly accented voice slashed the thread holding our suspended moment aloft. Time snapped back to its usual cadence, and my breath expelled in one sharp rush before I turned my head. Tall. Dark hair. Olive skin. The newcomer wasn’t as classically good-looking as Christian, but he filled out the lines of his Delamonte suit with so much raw masculinity it was difficult to look away. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” Delamonte Suit flicked a glance in my direction. I’d never been super attracted to older men, and he had to be in his mid to late thirties, but wow. “Not at all. You’re right on time.” A hint of irritation hardened Christian’s otherwise smooth reply. He stepped in front of me, blocking me from Delamonte Suit’s view and vice versa. The other man raised an eyebrow before his mask of indifference fell away to reveal a smirk. He stepped around Christian, so deliberately it was almost like he was taunting him, and held out his hand. “Dante Russo.” “Stella Alonso.” I expected him to shake my hand, but to my surprise, he raised it and brushed his mouth across my knuckles instead. Coming from anyone else, it would’ve been