Page 12 of The Valentine Agenda

The next morning, she wore the cardigan.

When she stepped into the elevator, James actually slipped his phone into his pocket. His eyes met hers—just for a second, but enough to make her pulse skip. 'Good morning,' he said, his voice lower than she expected, almost intimate in the small space.

The cupid cutout's arrow blinked cheerfully as the doors closed, and Hannah didn't even mind how tacky it was anymore.

CHAPTER FIVE

James

James spent the final three days before Valentine's Day studying his target with the same attention he usually reserved for hostile takeovers. Hannah Miller's routine was dully predictable—exactly what he'd expect from someone who probably highlighted her daily planner and colour-coded her spice rack.

Every morning: she watered the lobby plants like some self-appointed caretaker. Her sensible flats (probably from DSW) squeaking against the marble floors as she adjusted pictures that didn't need adjusting. Today's cardigan? At least two seasons old. Vanessa would have had an aneurysm.

"Such a help, dear," one of the building's old biddies called from the mailroom. "My arthritis is acting up today."

Hannah immediately abandoned her plant-watering to sort through her mail, separating out what looked like bills and medical correspondence. James watched from behind his phone. How desperately eager to be needed.

Later, he watched her help the building supervisor's daughter with homework in the lobby. Her hair was pulled back in that same uninspired ponytail she wore every day, gesturing animatedly about something. Some kind of science lesson.

She'd actually drawn a weather chart on cardboard—the kind of earnest effort that made him almost embarrassed for her.

The girl was struggling with the terminology, but Hannah pulled out construction paper and markers, and they were making some kind of craft project together. Who had that kind of time or patience?

"Now you'll always remember," Hannah was saying, "because you made it yourself."

The girl beamed. Hannah's answering smile was unfiltered—exactly the kind of authenticity that would photograph well at Nero's. Make him look like the kind of man Vanessa had claimed he wasn't.

Then she was helping Mr. Thompson with his new phone, explaining the same functions over and over with seemingly endless patience. Her cardigan had picked up chalk dust from the day's lessons, and her practical flats were scuffed. Everything about her screamed discount department store clearance rack.

"You're a saint," Mr. Thompson said when he finally managed to send a text.

"Not at all," Hannah replied. "I just like helping."

James resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Nobody "just liked helping." Everyone wanted something. Hannah probably lived for these moments of being needed, of making herself indispensable to the building's residents. All that relentless kindness had to be compensation for something—an unfulfilling life, probably. The kind of existence that would make his carefully planned Valentine's dinner seem like a fairy tale.

He watched her stop to deliver hot chocolate to Mrs. Chen, who was watching neighborhood children in the playground.

"Join us?" Mrs. Chen called to Hannah. "These old eyes appreciate young help."

Hannah settled onto the bench, immediately drawn into what looked like a story about Mrs. Chen's grandchildren. Her attention never wavered, asking questions and laughing at all the right moments. As if she actually cared about the mundane details of these people's lives.

Perfect. The more genuinely nice she appeared, the more effective his plan would be. Vanessa had always accused him of being self-absorbed, of not caring about "real people." Well, Hannah Miller was about as real as they came, right down to her sensible shoes and craft projects.

His phone buzzed with a text from Mike:Reservation at Nero's confirmed. Ready to make Vanessa jealous?

James watched Hannah help Mrs. Chen up from the bench, steadying the older woman with careful hands.More than ready, he typed back.I've got exactly what I need.

Some women spent fortunes on designers and procedures to curate an impeccable facade. Hannah Miller had built hers with discount cardigans and relentless good deeds.

It was the perfect image. And James Park knew exactly how to use a good show.

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James adjusted his tie—a blue one that he knew photographed well—and checked his reflection in the elevator doors one last time. Trevor and Vanessa's standing reservation at Nero's was confirmed for Valentine's Day. Now he just needed to secure his prop—his date.

Hannah was by the front window, adjusting those ridiculous Valentine's Day decorations. She wore a basic green top, her hair in its usual, uninspired ponytail. Perfect. The contrast with Vanessa's polished aesthetic couldn't be more striking.

"Hannah?" He let his voice catch slightly, an artful hesitation he'd perfected over years of closing difficult deals. Nothing endeared you to someone like letting them think they made you nervous.

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