Chapter 22
Tim’s POV
The meal is exceptional-one that leaves me eager to take leftovers home for an easy meal later. The woman can cook. If this is just the beginning, I’m hoping for more chances to share dinner here.
We sit out on her balcony, the weight of the day lifting as her presence wraps me in comfort. The city hums below, a kaleidoscope of headlights weaving through traffic, with sirens intermittently breaking the stillness. But up here, it’s an entirely different world. The night feels unhurried, like it exists only for us. Words seem unnecessary; the silence feels alive and full.
I reach over and take her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. The simple act stirs something deep- a pull to touch her, to feel her against me again. If she’s open to it, I’d like to take her to bed once more. That night we shared was unforgettable. For days now, flashes of her come to mind with startling clarity-the soft sounds she made, the way her body fit against mine. Never before had I felt this way after being with a woman. Typically, intimacy was just a fleeting satisfaction. Yet with Brielle, it was something else entirely. And I can’t help but wonder if the connection we felt was a one-off-or the beginning of much more.
She doesn’t take her hand back. Together, we gaze out at the city, the faint strains of music wafting in from the stereo in the living room. Horns blare in the distance, sirens wail, but none of it disrupts the mood; if anything, it builds a quiet tension within me, making me want her more.
“Coffee?” Her voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn toward her.
“Sure. Need some help?” I don’t wait for an answer, standing to follow her into the kitchen.
“Yeah, grab the mugs,” she replies as she moves gracefully ahead of me. And I watch her as she walks. I mean, how can I not? The curve of that back, the length of her bare legs-it’s magnetic. Even her feet catch my notice, painted with polish while her hands remain bare. Curious, I wonder about her job; my sister’s work as a chef keeps her from wearing any polish on her nails, and many occupations -medical staff, phlebotomists-have similar restrictions. Brielle did mention starting a new job Monday. I want to ask about it but decide against it. Talking about work while at home rarely leads anywhere good. If the job change comes from workplace drama, prying might open wounds better left untouched.
To be honest, I realize there’s so much I don’t know about her. Basic things-like whether she has siblings-or even small details haven’t come up. The thought feels surreal, considering how intimate we’ve been. We haven’t swapped phone numbers, yet here I am picturing being with her again. My mother would be scandalized, no doubt. A pity hookup, she’d call it, although she’d never use words like that aloud. Mum’s the queen of old-school scolding; one flick of her dish towel and I’d be stung before I could react.
Brielle moves about the kitchen as I grab the cups like she asked. She slides coffee beans into the grinder with practiced ease before reaching for milk-and a cheesecake. Cheesecake. She pulls it from the fridge like it’s nothing, but for me, it’s a moment of sheer delight. I adore cheesecake, especially homemade ones, the kind my mum makes for Sunday family lunches or charity bake-offs. This feels special.
After slicing the dessert neatly into two pieces, Brielle wraps the rest and returns it to the fridge. It’s tempting to ask if I can snag any to take home, but the thought makes me grin. A valid excuse to visit
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her again, not that I’ve needed one so far.
Her cheesecake inspires me to grab plates and cutlery, placing everything on the table with napkins. It’s ingrained in me, this kitchen etiquette-thanks to my mum drilling it into me growing up. Though I’d fight tooth and nail against any chore, the lessons stuck. My three sisters and I spent years negotiating whose turn it was to scrape the plates, load the dishwasher, or clear the table. Like most kids, we all dreaded chores. Somehow, even tidying my room felt like a monumental task.
Brielle sits and takes a bite of cheesecake. Her face lights up with quiet appreciation-the lemon zest adding a sharp pop of flavor. Yet her gaze drifts faraway, thoughtful. I consider asking what’s on her mind but hold back. I’ve learned from years of comforting my sisters and mum that timing is everything. Push too soon, and you’ll end up with more resistance than answers.
My own thoughts wander-to how we met, to her weary, fragile state that day. She’s different now, stronger, more composed. It surprises me how quickly she’s bounced back from whatever broke her before. There’s a quiet resilience, but also a tenderness that sets her apart from the toxic mess of that money-hungry woman who lived here before. Brielle carries none of the emptiness that plagued that other person, the one who could exploit others without batting an eye.
A loud bang cuts through the quiet. We both turn toward the window. Fireworks. Bright red and blue blossoms explode across the sky in celebration. It’s not a holiday, and I rack my brain for a reason.
“It must be the baseball finals,” Brielle murmurs, barely loud enough to be heard.
“Baseball? You keep up with baseball?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
“My dad loves all sports,” she explains with a soft smile. “When I was little, he even took me to see a Dodgers game. Watching live is so different-it’s unforgettable.”
“Yeah,” I agree easily, “I felt the same about ice hockey growing up. My school was big on hockey, but football became my thing later. Maybe we could catch a game together sometime?”
“That sounds nice,” she says warmly. “We can ask my dad to come along if he’s not working. He’d love that.”
“Definitely. I’ll ask my dad too. Though I doubt my sisters would join-football isn’t their thing.” And just like that, the thought fills me with anticipation. Not only does it give me an excuse to see her again, but it feels like a step forward, something bigger brewing between us.
< The Betrayal Clause
