Five o’clock.
The December sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in shades of coral and gold. The park had emptied almost entirely, leaving only Andromeda and an elderly man walking a arthritic beagle along the far path.
She finally rose from her bench—a different bench now, closer to the playground, where she’d been sitting since her conversation with the mothers ended—and gathered her things.
Finally.
Finally, she was heading home. Finally, she would realize she needed to contact him. Finally—
She walked right past the park exit that led to Tranquil Acres.
What the hell?
Paul watched in disbelief as she continued down the main path, crossed the street at the corner, and headed toward the row of shops that lined the opposite block. A dry cleaner. A nail salon. And at the end, its windows glowing warm in the gathering dusk—
The Tranquil Acres Reading Hall.
A members-only facility, according to the brass plaque beside its door. The kind of private library that gated communities built to give their residents somewhere to feel cultured without having to mingle with the general public.
She went straight to the members-only library...and stayed there past sunset.
The December darkness came early, draping the streets in shadow by six o’clock. Christmas lights blinked to life along the storefronts—white lights on the dry cleaner, colored ones on the nail salon, an elaborate display of icicle lights dripping from the library’s eaves.
Inside those windows, he could see her moving between shelves. Trailing her fingers along spines. Pulling books out to examine them before sliding them back into place.
She looked like a child in a candy store.
She looked like someone who’d forgotten entirely that the outside world existed.
Damn her.
He had spent six hours following this girl like an obsessed fool. Six hours watching her do absolutely nothing of consequence. Six hours waiting for her to seek him out, to come to him, to prove that last night had meant something.
And she had spent those same six hours eating sandwiches and watching ducks and reading books as if he didn’t exist.
He was Paul Mitropoulos.
He did not chase.
He did not wait.
He did not spend entire days stalking women who clearly did not want to be stalked.
And yet here he was.
Doing all three.
Enough.
The word cracked through his mind like a whip.
He didn’t know what game she was playing. Didn’t know if this was strategy or stupidity or something else entirely. But he was done waiting to find out.
He got out of the car.
The air hit him like a slap—crisp and cold, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from somewhere nearby and the faint sweetness of the pine garlands wrapped around the library’s entrance columns. His breath misted white as he crossed the street, his expensive shoes clicking against pavement dusted with the first suggestion of frost.
The library doors opened with a soft chime.
