Chapter 4
Brielle’s POV
The penthouse sprawls wide and open, every detail polished to modern luxury. But what truly catches my breath is the view-a glittering expanse of city lights stretching far into the horizon. Sitting out on the balcony, soaking in the pulse of nightlife, is a habit I know I’m going to love. The virtual tour didn’t do this place justice.
After a quick trip out to stock up on groceries, I step back into the private elevator, my arms full of bags covering every inch of skin. The soft ding of the elevator doors opening doesn’t prepare me for what’s next: stepping directly into a wall of solid warmth that most definitely does not belong there.
Caught off guard, I juggle the groceries, desperate to prevent wild oranges or rogue jars from escaping to splatter dramatically on the marble floor. Before I can fully panic, a hand reaches out and steadies me. The unexpected help eases the weight from my grip as the stranger takes a couple of bags from
Looking up, I find myself locked in a pair of stunning blue eyes set into a face that feels like the answer to a question I didn’t know I was asking. The grin he flashes splinters the tension, but it does something quieter too-something that warms places I’d long forgotten existed. His messy brown hair, like he just rolled out of a steamy bed, and his towering, muscular frame render me speechless. How had I wasted so much energy lamenting Balen when men like this exist in the same universe? My inner turmoil over the divorce evaporates under the weight of his physical magnetism. This man could resuscitate every dormant nerve I thought I’d buried.
“Need a hand?” His voice is casual but rich with warmth. “I’m Tim. You must be my new neighbor?”
Tim. A name to go with all that visual poetry. As he turns effortlessly towards my door, the grace with which he balances the remaining sacks in his arms offers me a moment to memorize the taut line of his back. The man looks like every indulgent daydream I never had the courage to entertain.
Fumbling for words, I finally blurt, “Brielle. My friends call me Brie.”
His easy grin deepens. “Nice to meet you, Brie. Welcome to the top floor. So, tell me-do you cook?”
The abrupt question startles a laugh out of me. “I guess you could say so. Enough to keep myself fed. Nothing Michelin-star worthy.” I chuckle, appreciating the playful lilt in his demeanor.
“Excellent,” he replies with genuine enthusiasm. “I can’t cook to save my life. Maybe we strike a deal- you cook some days; I order takeout for the others. Fair?”
I smirk back, finding an ache of amusement releasing tension I hadn’t noticed in my shoulders. “Fast worker, are we?”
His laugh is low, but it ripples with good-natured mischief as he deposits the groceries onto my kitchen counter. Taking a moment to survey my penthouse, his gaze lingers over the space I’ve already started making my own. “You’ve made it cozy already. The last tenant barely cared about decorating. She married some loaded guy not long before she left. But the view here-it’s incredible. You should swing by my place sometime. Ocean view. The sunset’s something else entirely.”
My heart hesitates, unsure where to place his invitation on the spectrum between casual neighborliness and something more. But before I can read too deeply into it, he announces he’s late
for dinner with someone named Freyara and breezes out the door, leaving me blinking in his wake. A strange mix of longing and jealousy prickles at the edges of my thoughts, but I shove it away instantly, resolving not to turn this into an unrequited crush. Still, his parting grin lingers, tucked away in some vulnerable corner of my mind.
As his footsteps fade down the hall, I shake myself free and carry on until my phone interrupts the quiet. When I see the number, my chest tightens slightly-recognizing Calitha’s effort to break some formality by calling instead of texting.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Calitha blurts out excitedly as I answer. “Five million, four hundred thousand! That’s the offer for your house.”
It takes a moment to process, but laughter bubbles in response. “Accept it. I don’t need the extra hundred thousand-I just want that chapter of my life over.”
Within minutes, she drives over with the papers, and after cooking her a chicken stir-fry, we pop open a bottle of wine. Together, we celebrate-albeit with guarded joy-a new beginning. Sleeping arrangements are resolved fast, and I finally collapse into bed, feeling lighter than I have in years. By morning, Calitha departs with assurances of handling all the details.
As the city gradually wakes, I sip a three-quarters warm cup of coffee on the balcony-entertaining fresh possibilities of freedom-when, without warning, my front door swings quietly open. Tim appears, his ease radiating a different flavor of confidence. My inner alarm should flare-why hadn’t I locked the door?-but apprehension dissolves instantly into reluctant amusement.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Tim teases with a grin so maddening it should be illegal. “Lonely night?”
Raising an eyebrow, I counter sharply, “How often did you walk into *her* place without knocking?”
It’s petty, but the question bursts out before I stop myself. His reply catches me off-guard. “Never. She kept that locked tighter than a vault. And trust me, I’m not into gate-crashing sugar daddy arrangements, so don’t lump me in with that crowd.” For the first time, bitterness colors his tone.
Curiosity itches but remains buried for now. When he lounges at the kitchen counter a moment later, conversation shifts to lighter topics. By the time I’m cracking eggs to make a simple breakfast, my tension has thawed again, replaced tentatively by surprising comfort.
