Chapter 159

ELENA

The office smelled like laminate flooring and cheap ambition.

“This one just came available last week,” the realtor said brightly, her heels clicking across the polished concrete as she waved toward the wall of glass-fronted cubicles. “Lots of natural light, open floor plan, pre-installed cable and ethernet—plus, we’ve got a breakroom that could easily be converted into a kitchenette with just a little vision.”

I nodded politely, trying to stay engaged. Behind her, Aiden spun slowly in a dusty office chair someone had left behind, his feet barely brushing the floor. He tilted his head back as he turned, staring at the ceiling tiles like they might offer salvation.

“Can we go yet?” he groaned.

“Soon,” I said, forcing a smile.

He groaned again, more dramatically this time, and let his arms fall limp as the chair rotated a half-circle and wobbled to a stop.

This was the fourth office space we’d toured today. All of them were the same. Bland beige walls. Slightly stained carpet. Windows facing parking lots or alleyways. Every tour started the same way—enthusiasm, potential, opportunity—and ended with me nodding politely and feeling… nothing.

I looked at my watch again. Jacob Stormvale was supposed to meet us nearly an hour ago.

Maybe I shouldn’t have expected much. He was charming, yes, and interested, or so he claimed—but playboys were notoriously unreliable. The kind of wolf who loved the idea of philanthropy as long as it earned headlines or got him laid. The minute real work showed up, so did their excuses.

I exhaled slowly, glancing again at the door. Maybe he wasn't coming.

“Now this,” the realtor said, pausing dramatically in front of a closet-sized room with glass doors, “could be a great private office. For the director or founder, of course.”

Aiden spun by again behind her like a slow-moving tornado of attitude.

Just then, the door opened with a cheerful chime.

Jacob Stormvale strolled in like a magazine spread come to life. Navy-blue suit, no tie, top button casually undone. Expensive sunglasses perched on his head. In one hand, he carried a tray of coffees from a place I recognized—the kind of trendy little café that put flower petals on lattes. In the other hand, two roses: one red, one yellow.

“Ladies,” he said, flashing that maddeningly perfect smile. “I am so sorry to be late. Please accept these as the smallest of apologies for my truly shameful timing.”

He handed a cup to the realtor, who blinked in delighted confusion. “Tall nonfat vanilla latte, two extra pumps?” he said with a wink.

The woman practically preened. “Oh my gosh. That’s exactly right!”

Then he turned to me, more gently. “And a lavender oat milk latte, one pump honey, extra hot.”

I stared at him, taking the cup more slowly. “How did you know how I take my coffee?”

“I called the Moonstone Packhouse,” he said. “Asked to speak to the chef. I hope that wasn’t overstepping.”

I blinked. “No, just… unexpected.”

“And for you both,” he added, offering the roses. The red one to the realtor. The yellow to me.

“To you,” he said to the realtor, “my deepest apologies for making you wait. You’ll have my undivided attention going forward.”

The woman was now one breath away from melting into the carpet.

“And for you,” he said, holding the yellow rose out to me with a small, almost earnest smile, “in friendship and partnership.”

The rose was perfect. Vibrant, unblemished, with a little water bead still clinging to its petal. Definitely hothouse. Probably overnighted from somewhere extravagant just to be perfect today.

I took it, wary. This man probably lined up twice when the Moon Goddess was handing out charm. Or stole it off someone else in line.

Just then, Aiden rolled past again, spinning in the chair like it was a merry-go-round from hell.

“And who is this?” Jacob asked, grinning as he watched him pass.

“I’m bored,” Aiden announced without stopping, and pivoted out of sight.

Jacob chuckled. “Charming.”

“Aiden,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose, “where are your manners?”

But I didn’t push. Aiden had already voiced his opinion of Jacob once—back in Barbados, when he’d said very seriously, “I don’t like that guy.” Apparently, not much had changed.

“He’s cute,” Jacob said.

I gave him a flat look. “He’s six.”

“Even six-year-olds have standards, it seems.”

To his credit, Jacob shifted gears quickly, turning back to the realtor with sharp, focused energy.

He sipped his coffee and launched into a series of questions—ones that actually mattered. What were the zoning restrictions? Was the building ADA compliant? Had it passed fire code inspections in the last year? Did the landlord offer any improvement credits?

The realtor, flustered and still blushing, scrambled to keep up.

Then he pivoted to something I hadn’t expected.

“Of course, this is just the start,” he said, gesturing around the space. “But we’re not only looking for admin offices. In the long term, we’ll need properties that can be converted into shelters, clinics, maybe community centers. Do you or your agency handle those kinds of listings?”

“Uh—yes,” the woman said. “Yes, I’m sure we can find something like that.”

“And if we agreed to work exclusively with your agency for all real estate needs associated with the foundation,” he added smoothly, “would you be willing to negotiate reduced commission rates? We are a nonprofit, after all.”

Her eyes widened. “I—I’d have to talk to my supervisors, of course. But I’m sure we could arrange something.”

I watched, surprised.

He wasn’t just charming. He was strategic. He’d flustered her, sure, but he'd also negotiated a lower rate for us before we’d even signed a lease. And he'd asked the kinds of questions I hadn’t even thought of yet.

Maybe this wasn’t just a vanity project to him.

We finished the tour. Jacob kept his attention on the space, pointing out load-bearing walls and asking whether there was a separate HVAC for the back rooms. The realtor—still glowing from her coffee and rose—trailed behind, jotting notes and promising to follow up.

As we stepped outside into the bright autumn air, Aiden let out a dramatic sigh.

“FINALLY.”

Aiden dragged the word out like it had personally offended him, spinning the office chair one last time before hopping off and marching toward the exit. I smothered a smile. The realtor offered another round of overly polite thank-yous before heading off toward her own car, heels clicking against the pavement.

I gave her a small wave, then turned in the opposite direction, trailing Jacob and Aiden down the sun-warmed sidewalk.

“So,” Jacob said after a few beats of companionable quiet, “what did you think? I really am sorry I missed the other two buildings. You see anything today that feels like a fit?”

I mulled it over. “Not really,” I admitted. “Nothing that bowled me over. They all kind of… blended together.”

He nodded thoughtfully, sipping from his coffee. “Hmm. Give me a few days. I have an idea.”

I shot him a sidelong glance. “Do I want to know?”

“That depends,” he said, flashing a grin. “Do you trust me?”

I snorted. “Not even a little.”

He laughed, warm and low, like I’d just complimented him. “Smart woman.”

Then he turned to Aiden, full of easy charm. “What do you think, big guy? Can I take you and your mom to get some ice cream?”

Aiden barely paused, his expression flat as he shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets.

“I don’t like ice cream,” he said evenly—a lie, I thought—and then added without missing a beat, “and don’t call me Big Guy.”

Jacob clutched his chest in mock offense, staggering dramatically. “Brutal.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

We walked on, the breeze stirring the hem of my coat, my fingers still wrapped around the warm coffee Jacob had somehow managed to get exactly right. The yellow rose peeked out of my bag, perfect and ridiculous.

Jacob Stormvale was not what I expected.

And I still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.