I turn on the defrost, the windshield clears, and I pull out.
Not toward Sammy’s. And not toward home. No…Somewhere between the Xcel Center in St. Paul and my downtown Minneapolis penthouse, I end up on Chloe’s street.
I didn’t plan it. At least, I tell myself I didn’t.
Her apartment building is in the Crocus Hill neighborhood, an older area with tall trees and historic homes converted into rentals. It’s a classic St. Paul structure—red brick with white trim, probably built in the 1920s. Second-floor unit on the right side. Lights on in the windows, warm yellow against the winter darkness.
I park down the street, under a massive oak tree. I sit there, engine purring. I should go home. Get some sleep. Review the contract properly. Call Rick back. But I keep looking at her front door…willing her to text me, ask me if I’m up. I know it’s crazy—she’s the last person I should want to talk to about the contract—but what I wouldn’t give right now to talk it out with her, with someone who doesn’t see me as just Candy Kane…or who didn’t.
Maybe she does now.
I let out a heavy breath. I shouldn’t be here.
You have her number. You could text her.
Right. And say what? Hey, crazy thought…you wanna hang out and talk fake-relationship contracts? No? That’s cool. Me neither.
Looks like I’m on my own.
I palm the shifter and?—
The front door opens.
Everything stops.
Chloe steps out onto the exterior stairs, and I swear time does that cheesy, slow-motion thing they do in movies. She’s wearing gray sweatpants, the well-loved kind with frayed hems, and an oversized Gophers sweatshirt—the same one from the other morning. Her brown hair’s piled in this messy bun situation with little wisps escaping around her face, catching the porch light.
She’s taking out the trash.
Taking out the trash.
And somehow, it hits me all over again. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Drive. Drive now. Before she sees you and calls the cops.
My hands won’t move. I’m frozen like an idiot, watching her hustle down the stairs, breath clouding in the cold air. No coat. Just speed-walking to the bins at the side of the building with this little bounce in her step that makes my chest physically ache.
DRIVE, YOU CREEP.
I force myself to shift into gear, foot heavy on the clutch, pull away before she can glance up, before she can notice my car lurking in the shadows. Before I can manage to scare her away and mess things up even worse than they already are.
White knuckled, I pull back onto the freeway, head toward home.
All right, Brody. A few rules if you’re gonna go through with this.
First, no more letting it get into your game.
Second, no more creepy stakeouts.
And finally, absolutely, one hundred percent, no falling in love with Chloe, for both your sakes.
I pull into the underground garage of my apartment building and kill the engine.
Five weeks of pretending.
Five weeks of Chloe.
I close my eyes, drop my head against the steering wheel.
