Page 31 of The Valentine Agenda

He hadn't seen her. More importantly, he hadn't seen anyone who mattered to his image. No audience, no witnesses, just an elderly woman close to tears over her memories scattered on the ground.

"It's alright," he was saying, his voice different somehow. Softer. "We'll get them all. None of them are damaged."

"But they're all out of order now." Mrs. Peterson's hands fluttered anxiously. "I had them arranged by year, you see. For my granddaughter's project..."

"Tell me about this one." James held up a photo, and something in his gesture made Hannah press back against the wall, suddenly unwilling to interrupt. "When was it taken?"

"Oh, that's from the summer of '65. See how Harold's holding the fishing rod? He was terrible at fishing, but he kept trying because I mentioned once that I liked fresh trout..."

James was actually listening, Hannah realized. Not just nodding politely, but asking questions, noting details. His usual perfect posture was forgotten as he sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully arranging photos into piles as Mrs. Peterson talked.

"...and this one?" He held up another photograph.

"Our first dance after he came home from the war. My dress was borrowed, and his uniform was wrinkled, but oh, how he smiled..."

Something shifted in James's expression—a softness Hannah had never seen before. "You can tell," he said quietly. "How much he loved you. It's right there in his face."

The James she had daydreamed about would never sit on a lobby floor in a thousand-dollar suit, listening to decades-old love stories. That James was all surface, all performance. This James... this James was handling faded photographs like they were precious things, learning the history of a love story that couldn't possibly benefit his social status.

"Hannah helped me organize these last month," Mrs. Peterson was saying. "Made a whole system..."

Hannah expected James to stiffen at her name, to retreat behind his usual polish. Instead, he just smiled, a small, real thing. "You're lucky to have her."

The softness in his voice made her heart stumble.

"There," he said finally, helping Mrs. Peterson tuck the organized photos back into their envelope. "All in order. May I walk you back to your apartment?"

"Such a gentleman," Mrs. Peterson patted his arm. "You know, you remind me a little of my Harold. He took a while to figure things out too."

James's laugh was self-deprecating, almost vulnerable. "I think I'm a bit slower than Harold."

Hannah pressed a hand to her chest, trying to quiet the dangerous flutter there. This wasn't the James who'd left her at Nero's. This wasn't even the James who'd been carefully performing community service all week.

This was someone else entirely. Someone real.

"Stop it," she whispered to herself. "One genuine moment doesn't erase what he did."

But as she headed for the elevator, she couldn't help remembering the remorse in his voice, the unguarded way he'd smiled, the simple truth of him sitting on the floor in his expensive suit, learning the history of someone else's love story.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

James

James wasn't watching Hannah. He was simply aware of the people in the room. From behind his laptop. In the corner. For the third day in a row.

"The clouds are angry today," Hannah was saying to a group of elderly residents, holding up what appeared to be a child's painting. "Tommy made this to show how arthritis feels. See how the dark colors swirl here?"

She gestured with her free hand, and James definitely wasn't noticing how her whole face lit up when she talked about her students. Or how a strand of hair had escaped her practical ponytail, curling against her neck. Or how her simple apple pendant caught the light in a way that made her look...

No. He was not doing this.

"Beautiful interpretation," Mrs. Chen nodded at the painting. "The boy understands pain."

"He has a lot of empathy," Hannah said, and her smile—

James forced his attention back to his laptop. He had emails to answer. Meetings to schedule. Important things that had nothing to do with the way Hannah's voice softened whenshe talked about her students, or how her eyes crinkled at the corners when she really smiled—not the polite smile, the real one she saved for...

For people who deserved it.

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