Page 46 of Dream Chaser

As soon as he left, I peeled the wet shirt off my skin and slipped into his hoodie. It covered my hips and faintly smelled of detergent.

Tension bled from my muscles as I sat on the couch. The room was tidy but lived-in. An open laptop sat on the coffee table beside a stack of books—crime fiction, sports biographies, and business titles.

Preston didn’t like reading. He liked watching TV and, apparently, renovating properties that weren’t his.

Bitter, the thought shattered the illusion of calm. I inhaled deeply, sliding my hands under my knees as I tried to focus on the present.

Me, sitting in Alejandro’s living room. Him, showering. Traces of his warmth lingered on my skin after the hug he gave me, but now we’d have to talk.

I swallowed thickly, panic rising.

Footsteps drew near. He stood in the doorway, sliding a hand through his wet hair. “Sorry for leaving you alone. Give me your shirt and come with me. I’ll make some tea while it dries, unless you prefer something stronger.”

That’d be calamitous. He made me nervous when I was sober. Alcohol would turn me into an even bigger mess after the day I’d had. I handed him my soaked shirt. “Tea would be great.”

I followed him into the kitchen—neat like the rest of the apartment, modern stainless-steel appliances gleaming in the dim light.

“I’ll make you tila,” Alejandro said, filling a kettle with water. “Linden tea. Good for nighttime.”

Thoughtful. My chest warmed. “Thank you,” I said, sitting at the island.

He put the kettle on the stove and took the shirt to the dryer, then he was back. “Hungry?”

I was, but it was past nine. I doubted he’d eat after going for a run, and I’d feel weird eating alone.

He opened the fridge. “I have leftover creamy chicken pasta, but we can order something else.”

“You don’t have to.”

He arched a brow, looking at me over his shoulder. Not quite his boss look, but eloquent enough to make me flustered.

“I meant that you don’t have to order anything,” I said. “Pasta is perfect.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Good. I’ll eat too.”

He pulled pasta from the fridge and heated it in the microwave.

“So, you cook,” I said as he set a plate of pasta and a mug of tea in front of me.

“I travel a lot.” Alejandro sat across from me. “But I love cooking when I can.”

He loved cooking and reading, his place was spotless, and he folded laundry better than most. Mom would say he was hiding a wife and children, but her standards were so low, the bar was in hell.

I shoved a forkful into my mouth and chewed. The pasta was delicious enough to push my troubles to the back of my mind. At least until Alejandro brought up the reason I’d sobbed into his chest.

“More?” he asked a few minutes later.

I hadn’t even realized I’d cleared my plate. “I’m good,” I whispered. Thank you. For everything. The hoodie, the food and—”

He shook his head. “Stop it. It’s the least I could do after seeing you cry.”

He finished his last bite and took our plates to the dishwasher. Then he was back, sitting across from me, hands clasped on the table.

“Can I ask what happened?”

Before, I would’ve lied, scared he’d fire me. But his tone was calm, gaze warm, and I needed to get stuff off my chest.

“I inherited my grandmother’s house before I got married… and I saw today that my husband started renovating it without my permission. I called the police, and the officer ordered the crew to leave, but they…” My voice caught. “They’d already changed the old porch. Windows too. And the cabinets my grandpa made.” My voice broke. I cleared my throat, then took another sip of warm tea.