Page 27 of The Valentine Agenda

The formality bothered him. She saw it in the tightening of his jaw, the flicker of something that might have been pain if James Park were capable of human emotions.

"I don't know," he said quietly, and the uncertainty in his voice was worse than any smooth explanation would have been.

Hannah zipped her bag closed with a jerk. She wouldn't let him see how the late hour made her defenses feel paper-thin, how his rumpled vulnerability threatened the careful distance she'd built.

"I suggest you figure it out." She shouldered her bag.

She walked past him, her sensible shoes silent against the marble floor. She could feel him watching her go, could almost hear all the things he wasn't saying.

Just before she reached the door, his voice stopped her: "They really are beautiful. The paintings."

Hannah allowed herself one breath, one moment to acknowledge the way her heart still betrayed her when he showed these glimpses of something real.

"Good night, Mr. Park."

She didn't look back. The empty hallway swallowed the sound of her footsteps, and Hannah tried not to think about storm clouds and honesty and the way James Park's voice sounded different after midnight.

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Hannah was juggling Mrs. Peterson's grocery bags when the elevator doors opened, revealing James Park in his perfectly tailored suit. Her heart did that ridiculous little skip it always did, even as she tried to maneuver the bags without dropping them.

"Let me help with those," James said, already reaching for the heavier bags. His fingers brushed hers in the exchange, and Hannah told herself the warmth in her cheeks was from exertion.

They rode in silence, the gentle hum of the elevator marking each floor. Hannah was achingly aware of him beside her, of how his cologne mixed with the scent of fresh bread from Mrs. Peterson's bags.

The elevator stopped at eight. A door opened ahead—8B, the corner unit with the park view. Hannah had seen the 'For Rent' sign go up last week, had even let herself peek through the windows at the sunlit space that was twice the size of her studio. But the rent increase would mean no more spontaneous art supplies for her students, no more helping Ray stock the community room with tea and coffee. Some dreams had to wait.

"Everything okay?" James asked, and Hannah realized she'd been staring at 8B's door.

"Fine," she said quickly. "Mrs. Peterson's on nine."

James shifted the bags in his arms, his suit jacket pulling slightly across his shoulders. "After you," he said as the elevator doors opened again.

Hannah stepped out first, telling herself the flutter in her chest was just from carrying the bags. Not from the way James Park had touched her, or how gently he was carrying Mrs. Peterson's groceries, or how he smelled like expensive coffee and possibility.

Some dreams, she reminded herself firmly, had to wait.

Others weren't even worth dreaming about at all.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

James

"Just hold her arm gently," Mrs. Chen instructed, watching James attempt to help Mrs. Peterson into a chair. "She's not a business merger you're trying to strong-arm."

James adjusted his grip, hyper-aware of his Italian suit against Mrs. Peterson's polyester sleeve. He'd scheduled this "community service" between his 2PM call and 4PM meeting, certain that an hour of helping the elderly would ease the knot of guilt in his stomach.

It wasn't working.

"A little to the left, dear," Mrs. Peterson said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Though perhaps if you stopped holding yourself like you're afraid I'll break… "

James felt his ears burn. He was doing this right—he'd researched proper methods of assisted walking, had even watched a YouTube video on senior care. This should be simple. Manageable. Like everything else in his life.

He stepped back and wondered if he could ask Mrs Peterson if they could practice it again.

"Mr. Park." Mrs. Chen's voice cut through his thoughts. "The chairs need arranging for bingo. Unless you'd prefer to stand there looking uncomfortable?"

"I can handle chairs," he said, perhaps too quickly. Chairs were straightforward. Chairs didn't require gentle touches or understanding smiles or—

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