Page 36 of The Valentine Agenda

She tried to look like she hadn't been eavesdropping. “Liam? What are you doing here?"

"Visiting Grandpa!" Liam bounced on his toes. "Mr. Park liked my painting!"

"Did he?" Hannah's eyes met James's as he stood, the soft cashmere pulling across his shoulders in a way that made her throat dry.

Had she been too quick to reject him?

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The elevator doors closed on Liam’s cheerful wave, leaving Hannah and James in a silence that hummed with everything unsaid. She was still holding her stack of science projects, using them like a shield.

"Hannah." His voice was soft.

"The offer," she found herself saying, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "Is it still...?"

"Yes." The word came instantly, almost desperately. Then, more controlled: "Yes. Always."

She looked at him properly then, really looked. He looked... real.Keep your eyes open, Sophie had said.Not just for the bad stuff—for the good too.

She wondered how soft his sweater would be if she touched it, how soft his hair would be.

"Tomorrow?" he asked softly, his eyes never leaving her face.

Hannah nodded. "Not dinner." She said. "Just coffee."

The hope in his expression was almost unbearable.People can surprise you, whispered in her memory. He was looking at her like she was some kind of miracle, and it was too much. Too real. Too dangerous.

"I should go," she said quickly.

"Hannah." James's voice stopped her. "Thank you. For the second chance."

She managed a small nod before escaping to the elevator. But not before she caught his reflection in the brass mail slots—the way his whole body seemed to relax, like he'd been holding his breath for weeks.

"You're in trouble," she told her reflection as the elevator doors closed. Because she wasn't just giving James a second chance. She wasn't just letting herself hope.

She was falling for him all over again.

And this time, it felt terrifyingly real.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

James

James had researched the café extensively—its Yelp reviews, social media presence, health inspection records. The kind of due diligence he'd normally apply to a corporate acquisition. But standing in front of The Daily Grind on a chilly Saturday morning, with its chipped paint and hand-lettered sandwich board, he realized no amount of research could have prepared him for the reality of Hannah's world.

She pushed open the door like she belonged here, the bell's cheerful jingle matching her easy smile at the barista. This was her space. A world completely separate to his.

"Your usual, Hannah?" The barista—Pete, apparently—had tattoos visible under his rolled sleeves and a genuinely warm grin. "And for your friend?"

Friend. The word felt simultaneously inadequate and like more than James deserved.

"Black coffee," he said automatically, then caught himself. "Actually..." He watched Pete add a splash of cream to Hannah's cup. "I'll have what she's having."

Hannah's eyebrows rose slightly, but she didn't comment. Instead, she led him to a battered armchair near the window. The leather was cracked, the stuffing visible in places. He settled into the chair, his rich cashmere a stark contrast to the worn leather.

But Hannah curled into her chair like it was the most natural thing in the world, and something in James's chest tightened at how right she looked here. Not performing, not trying to fit in—just existing in a space that welcomed her exactly as she was.

"The cream's local," she said, misinterpreting his stare. "From that dairy farm upstate—"

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