Page 30 of The Valentine Agenda

"Right. Like you were 'monitoring the situation' yesterday when he helped Mrs. Peterson with her groceries. And the day before when he fixed Mr. Chen's wifi."

"He's obviously trying to prove something." Hannah said dismissively, concentrating on sorting embroidery floss. "It's just another performance. Like Valentine's Day."

But it didn't feel like Nero's. That James had been all polish and calculation. This James... this James had just spent ten minutes learning a complicated bracelet pattern just because Mr. Thompson wanted to make one for his granddaughter.

"Hannah, dear?" Mrs. Chen appeared with more supplies. "Could you show James how to do the advanced pattern? He seems to be struggling."

"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "I mean, I'm sure Mr. Thompson can—"

"I just thought, since you're so good at teaching..." Mrs. Chen's innocent tone fooled no one. "And Mr. Thompson's arthritis is bothering him today."

Hannah looked at Mr. Thompson's slightly trembling hands. Damn Mrs. Chen for knowing exactly how to get to her. She couldn't let the elderly man strain himself just because she was avoiding James.

"Fine." She squared her shoulders like she was heading into battle. "Just the pattern."

James looked up as she approached, surprise flickering across his features. She pulled up a chair, careful to maintain professional distance, and selected fresh embroidery floss.

"Like this," she demonstrated, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. "Under, then over, then through the loop."

She could feel his attention on her hands, intense in that way he had of focusing completely on whatever was in front of him. His sleeve brushed her arm as he attempted to copy her movements, and she forced herself not to react to the contact.

"No," she said, her teacher voice taking over despite herself. "You're pulling too tight. It needs room to—" She stopped herself from reaching to adjust his hands. "Try again. Looser this time."

James frowned in concentration, his usually perfect hair falling into his eyes as he bent over the threads. Something about seeing him like this—present, trying, actually listening to instruction—made her chest tight.

"Better," she said when he successfully completed a sequence. The genuine pleasure that crossed his face at her approval felt like a punch to the stomach.

"Thank you," he said softly, and when he smiled at her—for a moment, just a moment—she forgot to guard against him.

"I should check the refreshments," she said abruptly, standing. She retreated to the kitchen where Sophie waited with knowing eyes.

"He's actually not bad at it," Sophie observed. "The bracelets, I mean."

"Of course he's not." Hannah slammed a cookie tray down with more force than necessary. "James Park excels at everything he does. That's the problem."

"Is it?"

"Yes! Because it means—" Hannah broke off, realizing she was crushing a perfectly innocent cookie. "It means I can't tell what's real anymore."

She looked back into the main room. James was frowning in concentration, his perfect hair slightly mussed, as he carefully selected thread colors. Something about the scene made her chest tight.

"I can't do this again," she whispered. "I can't start seeing things that aren't there."

"Maybe," Sophie said carefully, "the problem isn't what you're seeing. Maybe it's that you're afraid to trust what you do see."

Hannah watched as James held up his finished bracelet, genuine pleasure crossing his face when Mr. Thompson approved. For a moment—just a moment—Hannah imagined him as someone else entirely. Someone real.

She turned away before he could catch her watching.

"It doesn't matter what I see," she said firmly. "James Park is very good at whatever role he thinks will get him what he wants. I'm not interested in being played for a fool. Not again."

But even as she said it, her traitorous eyes kept drifting back to his rolled-up sleeves, his careful hands, his gentle patience.

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Hannah was heading to check the building's mailroom when she heard Mrs. Peterson's voice, thin with distress: "Oh dear, oh dear..."

She rounded the corner, then stopped abruptly. James was already there, kneeling beside Mrs. Peterson's walker, gathering scattered photographs that had spilled across the floor.

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