Page 58 of The Valentine Agenda

Love wasn't about grand gestures or perfect timing.

It was about being there.

Every day.

Whether anyone noticed or not.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Hannah

Hannah was reaching for the top shelf in the supply closet when she felt someone behind her. The warmth of another body, the faint scent of expensive cologne mixed with something softer—coffee, maybe. Her heart recognized him before she turned around.

"Let me help with that." James's voice was low, close to her ear. He reached past her, his chest brushing her shoulder as he easily grabbed the box she'd been straining for.

Hannah turned, then immediately wished she hadn't. James was wearing a deep navy cashmere sweater that looked impossibly soft, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms. His hair fell across his forehead in natural waves, like he'd been running his fingers through it. The careful polish was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous—James Park, relaxed and touchable.

"Thank you," she managed, very aware of how little space there was between them in the supply closet. "I was just..."

"Art supplies?" His smile was different too—softer, more real. He glanced at the box in his hands. "For the community project?"

Hannah nodded, unable to form words. The sweater made his shoulders look broader, more inviting. Dark jeans and softer leather shoes had replaced his usual corporate armor.

"I can help you carry these to the community room," he offered, still standing close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him.

"That's not necessary," she said quickly, reaching for the box. Their fingers brushed, and Hannah felt the contact like electricity down her spine.

"I insist." His voice had that gentle tone she'd heard him use with Mrs. Peterson. It was worse than his corporate smoothness—this genuine warmth that made her want to lean into him.

She stepped back instead, needing space to think clearly. "Fine. Thank you."

They walked to the community room in charged silence. Hannah was achingly aware of him beside her—the quiet confidence of his stride, how his sweater pulled across his shoulders as he carried the box, the way his hair curled slightly at his nape.

"Where would you like these?" he asked as they entered the room.

"By the window is fine." Hannah gestured vaguely, watching him set down the box. He'd missed a spot shaving, she noticed.

"Hannah." He straightened, taking a half step toward her. "I—"

"I should get back to work," she cut him off, gesturing at the supplies, at the room. At anything that wasn't him and his impossibly soft sweater and the way he said her name like it meant something.

He nodded, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. The gesture was so unconscious, so unguarded, that Hannah had to curl her fingers into fists to stop herself from reaching up to smooth it back herself.

"Of course." He moved toward the door, then paused. "The radiator's working better now. For when the seniors come tomorrow."

Hannah's heart squeezed. "Was it broken?"

"No." His smile was slight but genuine. "But it will be cold tomorrow, and Mrs. Peterson's arthritis..."

He left the sentence unfinished, but Hannah felt the weight of it settle in her chest. Because this James—the one who noticed drafts and arthritis and a hundred small needs—was so much more dangerous than the polished businessman who'd left her at Nero's.

That James, she'd learned to guard against.

This one...

"Thank you," she said softly.

He nodded once, then left. Hannah pressed a hand to her sternum, feeling her heartbeat gradually slow.

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