Chapter 9
Brielle’s POV
Tim carries himself with an effortless warmth, the sort of quiet confidence that manages to console as much as it intrigues. He didn’t press for answers about my tears, didn’t force me into explanations I wasn’t ready to share. Instead, he seemed to have an innate understanding that women and their emotions are best handled with patience, a shoulder to cry on, and no probing questions. While kindness like his should have been comforting, it felt nearly humiliating to find myself breaking down in front of my new, impossibly attractive neighbor-the one I hadn’t even gone on a date with yet. My mind flits to the ridiculous things you obsess over when you’re upset, like how bad it might look to him.
The real question lingered: what now?
Seated at the quaint little café, we settled into a rhythm. Tim, attentive as ever, reached for my hand-a gentle gesture that carried a silent reassurance: he was here if I needed him. I withdraw after a moment, grabbing my phone and forwarding the hotel bill and the concierge’s accompanying message straight to my lawyer. No explanation added. My emotions were too raw, too tangled. Let him decide the next steps. As I toss the phone onto the table, the waitress arrives with our food. Tim, of course, keeps his focus on me.
“How much did you overhear?” I blurt. The question takes on a life of its own, propelled by the sudden dread he might have listened to more of my phone conversation than I realized.
“Enough,” he answers lightly, but his gaze doesn’t dodge mine.
The answer clearly doesn’t appease me because he soon sighs, conceding, “All of it.”
I nod quietly, processing. His understanding doesn’t feel invasive, though; if anything, it’s a relief not to have to bury everything completely. I don’t feel worse for him having caught those details. Maybe it’s a strange solace, knowing someone else can piece together something about who I am.
I decide to give him an opening. “Do you have questions?” The invitation hangs between us, daring him to pry if he chooses.
His response surprises and reassures me all at once. “If you need to talk, I’m a good listener. I don’t need every detail unless you want to share. I won’t push.” The sincerity in his words sits heavy, but comforting all the same. For now, that boundary feels like enough. Maybe, once we’re closer, I’ll peel back more layers. After all, we live just down the hall from one another. But even so, most men I know would’ve bolted after witnessing such vulnerability. Tears tend to have that effect on them. My ex- husband, though? Balen was cut from different cloth. Immune to them, as it turns out-something my sister took full advantage of.
The meal passes quietly, the tension thinning as Tim picks up the check before I can reach for my wallet. He promises it’ll be my turn next time, which is comforting in itself. Next time means today hasn’t scared him away. The thought brings a small wave of relief-there are enough awkward goodbyes in life, and I’d rather not tack on awkward hallway run-ins with the neighbor.
“What’s the plan for today?” Tim’s voice cuts through the last veil of awkwardness. “I’ve got the day off, and I’d hate to leave you alone like this. How about a city tour? There’s an art show on right now- up-and-coming talents showing their work to the public.” He keeps his tone casual, watching for how I’ll react.
11:07
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“That’s… very neighborly of you,” I reply dryly, trying to muster enthusiasm. Whatever my tone conveys, it must fail, because he chuckles and merely shrugs. Instead of heading homeward, I find myself ushered into a sleek black SUV that pulls up almost as if on cue. No phone calls needed, no outward signs of coordination. It’s puzzling, but perhaps there’s an app for that-a discreet system that signals to his driver. Watching him, I start wondering how much money he really has, living on the same floor as me. More than I guessed, evidently.
Judgment creeps into my thoughts, uninvited, and I push back useless comparisons to Balen. That’s a habit I need to kick-viewing men through a lens distorted by Balen’s shortcomings. My new contract comes with its own driver service, and I’d initially brushed it off as unnecessary. But Tim’s effortless access to convenience nudges me into reconsidering. Beyond work trips, maybe there’s an untapped potential to explore a perk I’ve barely thought about using.
The car inches through traffic, a congested sea of vehicles that stretches endlessly down the city’s main street. Tim’s amused chuckle breaks through my fixation on the chaos outside.
“This city’s streets weren’t designed for the modern age or this many cars,” he begins, effortlessly slipping into tour guide mode. The planners, he says, are brainstorming fixes, though none seem viable. Going underground or building overpasses would be a monumental feat; tearing down historic buildings meets resistance at every turn. He peppers his explanation with tidbits that spark curiosity, weaving in notes about nightlife and landmarks. The question of what he does for a living flickers briefly in my mind, only to be dismissed with a sharp reminder: not my business.
Eventually, the car pulls up beside an older, elegant building. Vibrant billboards announce an exhibition inside, showcasing local artistry. I’ve always appreciated the creative pursuits of friends-many of whom left their craft behind for more practical jobs. Stepping out, Tim smoothly opens the door for me, a small gesture that catches me off guard. Balen would’ve never done that. Yet again, the unwelcome habit of comparison rears its head.
I chastise myself, reminding that shifting such ingrained mental patterns takes time. It hasn’t even been a week-expecting perfection from myself is unrealistic. Tim leads the way inside, holding my hand as he threads us toward the exhibit. Strangely, I don’t mind the small intimacy of it. In fact, it feels good-unexpected, but good. It’s a contrast to cold memories of Balen, who had all but abandoned such gestures after our wedding. Tim’s hand is warm, smooth, a sign of a different lifestyle. Office job, perhaps? Some kind of executive? The thought flits away as quickly as it appears.
And still, the comparisons linger in corners of my mind, sneaking in when I least expect them. Marriage to Balen warped something in me. If I’m to regain myself, it starts here. No more measuring others against a failed yardstick. Time to embrace who I am now, maybe even try something new-a little less tethered, and far more fun. A fling. Neighborly benefits, no strings attached. Tim seems to awaken latent desires in me, and for the first time in a long while, I feel ready to go wherever they lead.
