WILLOW
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to reconcile the woman looking back at me with the barista who'd been slinging lattes twelve hours ago. The forest-green fabric hugged curves I'd forgotten I had. The neckline dipped low enough to be interesting without being scandalous. My hair fell in loose waves over my shoulders—courtesy of a YouTube tutorial and forty-five minutes of cursing at my curling iron.
I looked... expensive. Polished. As if I belonged at a charity gala instead of behind a coffee counter.
The illusion would shatter the moment I opened my mouth, but hey, at least I'd photograph well.
A knock at my door. Not a text. An actual knock.
I opened it to find Callum Hayes in a tuxedo that fit him with the attention to detail that screamed “private tailor,” one hand braced against my doorframe, theother holding a single white rose. His gaze swept over me, and I watched his face cycle through several emotions in rapid succession.
Surprise. Appreciation. And then—unless I was imagining it—raw, undisguised want.
"You're staring," I said.
"You're stunning." His voice came out rough, almost reluctant, as though he hadn't meant to say it out loud. He handed me the rose. "For you."
"A gentleman caller. How very 1950s of you." I stepped back to let him in, watched his architect's eye immediately start cataloging my apartment. The popcorn ceilings. The avocado-green kitchen tiles. The shag carpet that had seen better decades.
His mouth opened.
"Don't," I warned.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"Your face is saying plenty."
"It's just—" He gestured at the ceiling. "That texture. And the fixtures. This building is circa 1972, isn't it?"
"1974, actually. And I find it charming." I set the rose on my kitchen counter—harvest gold laminate, original to the building. "It has character."
"It has asbestos, probably."
"Retro charm."
"Lead paint."
"Vintage aesthetic."
"Willow, the bathroom tiles are?—"
I held out my hand, palm up.
He stopped. "What?"
"You owe me ten dollars."
"For what?"
"I bet you ten bucks you couldn't keep your judgment to yourself about where I live." I wiggled my fingers. "Pay up, Hayes."
He stared at me for a beat, then laughed—a real laugh, genuine and surprised, that transformed his entire face. Made him look younger. Made me want to hear it again.
"Fair enough." He pulled out his wallet, extracted a crisp ten-dollar bill, and placed it in my palm. "You win this round."
"I plan to win several more." I tucked the bill into my clutch. "Ready?"
"After you."
