The hours ticked by.
She finished her sandwich with the same unself-conscious pleasure she’d brought to the Four Seasons brunch, licking a smear of jelly from her thumb in a way that made his grip tighten on the door handle. Then she opened her book—a high fantasy one by the looks of its cover—and proceeded to lose herself entirely.
Her expressions as she read were...
Fuck.
He couldn’t look away.
She smiled at some parts, her whole face softening. Frowned at others, her brow furrowing in that way he’d noticed when she was processing something that didn’t sit right. At one point, she actually gasped out loud, her free hand flying to her chest, and Paul found himself leaning forward as if he could somehow divine what plot twist had provoked such a reaction.
This was insane.
He was Paul Mitropoulos. He had a company to run. Deals to close. A life that did not include sitting in parked cars watching women read romance novels in public parks.
And yet.
She finished her book around two o’clock. Closed it with a satisfied sigh he could almost hear through the window, then tucked it into her bag and rose from the bench with a stretch that pulled her sweater tight across her chest.
He should approach her now.
He didn’t.
Instead, he watched as she wandered to the edge of the pond, pulling a small bag from her purse. Breadcrumbs, he realized. She’d brought breadcrumbs for the ducks.
Of course she had.
The ducks swarmed her immediately, a chaotic flotilla of green heads and orange bills, quacking their demands with the entitlement of creatures who’d learned that humans were soft touches. His throat tightened as he watched her laugh—he could see it even from this distance, the way her shoulders shook, theway she crouched down to offer crumbs to a smaller duck that kept getting pushed aside by its larger companions.
Something twisted in his chest.
Something he refused to name.
By three o’clock, she’d migrated to the playground area. Not to use the equipment—though he almost wished she would, just to see what she’d do—but to chat with the mothers who’d gathered there. They accepted her into their circle with an ease that spoke volumes, making room on their bench, laughing at something she said.
She talked with her hands, he noticed. Animated gestures that punctuated whatever story she was telling. The mothers leaned in, engaged, charmed.
Everyone she met seemed to end up charmed.
Everyone except him.
He was not charmed. He was frustrated.Obsessed. Driven slowly out of his mind by a woman who apparently found ducks and playground mothers more worthy of her attention than a billionaire who’d offered her everything she could possibly want.
Four o’clock came and went.
The mothers packed up their children and departed in a parade of minivans and SUVs. Andie waved goodbye to each of them, that same open friendliness she’d shown to Joyce’s staff, to the servers at the Four Seasons, to every single person she encountered except him.
With him, she was wary.
Nervous.
Aroused, yes—he’d felt the evidence of that last night, hot and slick against his fingers—but guarded in a way she wasn’t with anyone else.
Good.
She should be guarded.
He was not a safe man to want.
