Chapter 11
Brielle’s POV
We pull away from the exhibition and glide through the city streets en route to a Chinese restaurant, as the driver was instructed. Tim’s attention turns to his phone, his fingers tapping out a reply, while I watch the blur of traffic and neon from my window, lost in thought about the man beside me. What do I truly know about him? Aside from the fact that he occupies the same floor in my building and offered comfort during my emotional meltdown, he’s still a mystery.
He’s attractive-no doubt about that-and seems well-acquainted with beautiful women. One clung to him the other day with an obvious intimacy that suggested more than friendship. Now, today at the exhibition, there was another woman radiating chemistry with him if my eyes didn’t deceive me. It paints a clear picture: Tim might be the sort of guy who juggles romantic entanglements with ease. And if that’s true, then perhaps he fits what I need right now. Someone uncomplicated. Someone who wouldn’t try making promises they couldn’t keep.
The thought feels oddly practical. I’m not ready for anything serious-can’t imagine going through heartbreak again-but I wouldn’t mind a little reprieve from loneliness. Friends with benefits? That might work, assuming Tim’s interested. Of course, there’s one hitch: if he’s already balancing two women, where in that tangled mess would I even fit? Do I slot into Tuesday nights or Friday afternoons? The more I think about it, the harder it seems. Dating-scratch that, even considering a
casual fling-feels like stepping into a foreign territory.
Lost in my maze of questions, I flinch when Tim’s hand settles lightly on my thigh. “You okay?” he asks suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness of the car. The warmth of his palm lingers before he pulls away quickly, apparently startled by my reaction.
“Sorry,” he says, his expression soft with apology. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I glance at him, a weak smile curling my lips. “You looked preoccupied with your phone, so I figured I’d give you room to handle whatever needed your attention.” My tone is casual-a deliberate dodge-but my mind keeps replaying that brief touch.
“Work’s been calling. They need someone to cover another shift.” He pauses, his words careful but
vague.
I nod slowly, unsure what to make of his half-explanation. “We don’t have to go for food. The exhibition was already a lovely treat. You shouldn’t have to pick between work and me.” My offer hangs in the air, honest but understated.
Tim shakes his head. “No need. The shift’s tonight-a quick task I can handle later.”
“Got it,” I murmur, uncertainty still lingering as the car stops outside the restaurant. Expecting Chinese cuisine, I’m momentarily surprised; the sign advertises multi-regional dishes. Tim steps out first, leaning back into the open door to offer me his hand. I hesitate for a microsecond before taking it, his steady grip pulling me onto the sidewalk.
Stop it. Don’t compare him to Balen. I chastise myself for the fleeting thought, the ache resurfacing when I least want it. Balen doesn’t deserve space in my mind anymore, and yet, his shadow still looms over moments like these. My marriage was empty-a one-sided masquerade-and measuring Tim against that would only ruin whatever this is before it begins.
11.07
0.168
Tim’s hand finds my lower back as he steers me through the restaurant’s entrance, and the sensation washes over me. A warmth I haven’t felt in ages spreads across my skin, mingled with an odd sense of significance. For a moment, I feel special, almost cherished. It’s intoxicating, and maybe that’s his magic-the same allure that keeps women orbiting around him.
But am I jealous?
No. I barely know him. Still, the idea of friends with benefits grows more tempting these longer hours we spend together.
At the host stand, a woman greets Tim warmly, stepping fully into his space. “A table for two?” Her voice holds familiarity as she pulls him into a hug, her lips brushing his cheek in the process. I blink, startled, as his hand slips from mine. He wraps her in an embrace-casual, confident-as though this were routine.
“Yes, please,” he replies smoothly.
The woman nods, not sparing me a glance as she leads the way through the restaurant with a practiced sway. Her traditional dress-a vibrant, fitted Chinese gown-complements her hourglass figure perfectly. She could turn heads, no question. Men would eat up the sight of her guiding them to
their seats.
Tim’s hand returns to my lower back as we follow, the motion almost possessive, reclaiming me after the brief interruption. Despite myself, I wonder: is she another woman in his rotation? If so, that makes three-and suddenly, I can’t help but feel ridiculous. How could I possibly compete with that list? I don’t even know him well enough to decide what I want. All these mixed signals leave my head
spinning.
Stop overthinking, I tell myself. Today isn’t about figuring Tim out-it’s about enjoying a distraction. I need to let this play out without spiraling into an insecure pile of assumptions.
Tim pulls out my chair as we reach the table, and I lower myself carefully, hoping to exude grace but unsure if I succeed. The host waits until Tim and I are seated, handing him the menu-but not me.
“The usual,” he says, “and coffee for two instead of wine.’
I frown slightly but stay silent. What about me? Shouldn’t I have a say in the matter?
“Sure.” The host beams, still ignoring me as she disappears with practiced efficiency. Is this his usual spot, complete with a “usual” order? How many women has he brought here? In mere seconds, my initial spark of excitement fades into something hollow.
“What’s ‘the usual?” I ask finally, curiosity hard to restrain.
Tim smirks faintly. “When I’m here, the chef gives me a mixed plate of experimental dishes she’s working on. I share my thoughts, honest critique, that sort of thing.”
My eyebrows lift. “Do you bring all your dates here?”
His lips curve slightly. “So this is a date?” he teases, his amusement clear enough to paint my cheeks
red.
I open my mouth to reply, but before words find purchase, a new figure bursts through the kitchen doors-another woman. This one dressed like a chef. Larger in presence and personality, she sweeps Tim into her arms before he can even stand, and he hugs her back, planting a cheek kiss.
Seriously? Number four?
