I look down at my shirt. The gray one I put on twenty minutes ago after changing out of the blue one I wore before that. They both feel too formal. I don’t want to look like I'm trying too hard.
I take the stairs to my bedroom and change again. Jeans, the ones that actually fit properly. A white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to my elbows. I look…casual. Like I'm not the kind of man who refreshes her blog fifty times a day or tracks her location or has spent the last week making sure every detail of her arrival is perfect.
By the time I come back downstairs, I can see headlights in the driveway. Robert's car pulls up to the guest cottage, and my heart does something it's never done before. It stutters.
I watch from the main house as Robert helps her out of the car. She's smaller than I expected, or maybe the cottage just makes her look small. She's wearing jeans and a jacket, and even from here I can see the way she hesitates before following Robert inside.
She's terrified.
Good. So am I.
I give her some time to settle in, to shower if she wants, to text her friend and tell her she's still alive. Time to decide if she's staying or running.
The ocean is getting rougher. I can hear the waves even through the glass, crashing against the rocks with more force than usual. A storm is coming, probably by morning. The weather report said rain, which almost never happens in May, but here it is anyway.
Everything about this week feels like an anomaly.
Helen appears in the dining room doorway. "Sir, it's almost seven. Should I bring her over?"
"Yes. Thank you, Helen."
"The dinner is ready whenever you are."
"Perfect."
She leaves, and I'm alone with my racing pulse and the roses and the table set for two. I walk to the windows and look out at the ocean because I need something to do with my hands. The water is dark gray now, almost black where it meets the horizon. The clouds press down low enough that I can't see where the sky ends and the water begins.
Behind me, I hear the door open. Hear Helen's voice saying something I don't process.
Then I turn around, and there she is.
Jade Catalano. In my house. Looking at me with those dark eyes that I've only seen through screens and from across crowded rooms.
She's more beautiful than her photographs. That's the first thing I notice. The camera doesn't capture the way she holds herself, careful and guarded, or the intelligence in her expression, or the exhaustion that lingers around her eyes like a shadow.
She's wearing a black dress that's simple and slightly too big, like she lost weight since she bought it. Her hair is down, falling past her shoulders, still damp from a shower. A simple chain around her neck. Minimal makeup. She looks nothing like the women I usually bring to this house.
She looks… real.
"Jade," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I expected. "I'm Phoenix Crawford. Thank you for coming."
Her eyes widen slightly. She wasn't expecting me to be young, I can tell. She probably pictured someone in his fifties with gray hair and maybe a gut.
"Hi," she says in a quiet voice. "Thank you for the ticket. And the money. And all of this."
She gestures vaguely at the room, at the house, at everything.
"You're welcome." I move closer but stop a careful distance away. I don't want to crowd her. Don't want to make her feel trapped. "How was the flight?"
"Long. But comfortable. I've never flown first class before."
"I'm glad you liked it." I can't stop looking at her and cataloging every detail. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her eyes dart to the floor and then to the ocean, anywhere but directly at me.
She's nervous. Terrified, actually.
"Would you like to sit?" I gesture to the dining room, to the table with the ocean view and the roses and the wine I've been saving. “We can start dinner anytime.”
"Okay." She follows me to the table, and I pull out her chair before she can do it herself. Her surprise is subtle but I catch it. She sits, and I take the seat across from her.
