Chapter Two
Georgia
I step out of the shower, steam clinging to the mirror and fogging my reflection. I wipe a clear patch with my palm and stare at myself for a second longer than necessary, like I’m trying to read something in my own face.
Nothing looks different.
That’s the unsettling part.
I pull on my underwear, then a soft blouse I reserve for days I need to feel put together even when I don’t quite feel that way inside. As I button it, my thoughts drift back to the letter waiting on my kitchen counter.
It has no stamp or return address…
I’d found it under my door a week ago, bent slightly at one corner, my name written in careful, deliberate handwriting. I remember standing there in the hallway of my apartment building, keys still in my hand, wondering who stuck a letter under my door.
I’d picked it up, gone back inside and sat at my kitchen table that night. My hand had trembled slightly as I opened the letter. And the moment my eyes scanned the words, I knew who had written it.
It was from the soldier who received my letter—the one I’d sent into the void a year ago and never thought about again. Or tried not to think about…
He told me how much it had meant to him. How it had helped him through one of the hardest periods of his life. How he’d carried it with him everywhere. How my words had stayed when everything else fell apart.
I swallow now, my chest tightening at the memory of how I felt at that moment reading his words.
He wrote like someone who had thought long and hard about every sentence. Like someone careful not to push. He said he wasn’t ready to meet me yet. That he didn’t want to scare me. That he wanted to give me a choice.
A choice.
My gaze drifts to the far end of my closet, to the red jacket hanging there, vivid against the muted tones around it.
I remember describing it in my letter—how my sister had given it to me for my birthday, and how I felt it was too bold for my usual taste, but I kept it anyway because it felt like her. I hadn’t even realized I’d written that much detail.
Apparently, I had.
And he remembered.
In his letter, he wrote that if I was willing to hear from him again, I should wear the red jacket to work on Friday.
Today.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
That was the moment the warmth I’d felt reading his letter had shifted into something sharper. Because there was no ignoring what that meant.
He hadn’t mailed the letter.
He’d delivered it himself.
Which means he is in Los Angeles. He knows where I live despite my address being unlisted. Which means he’s seen me—watched me. Long enough to know my routine. Long enough to know when I’m home.
That should terrify me.
I’ve lived with fear before. I know its shape. I know the way it creeps into your bones and never really leaves.
This…isn’t that.
This is awareness. Heightened, but electric.
I finish dressing and move back into the bedroom, standing in front of the closet again. My fingers hover for a second, then close around the hanger. With a sudden burst of resolve, I pull the red jacket free and slip it on.
The fabric settles over my shoulders, heavier than I remember. Brighter too. I button it up as I grab my bag. It’s unusually cool for Los Angeles—one of those rare mornings where the air feels crisp instead of forgiving.
I don’t miss the significance of that.
I step out of my apartment and lock the door behind me, my pulse skittering as I head down the stairs. Outside, the street is quiet, a huge contrast to my busy mind.
I stop just beyond the building entrance.
For a moment, I look around, scanning the parked cars, the opposite sidewalk and the street, wondering if he’s somewhere around—watching me.
Then I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, that this is what paranoia feels like when you let your imagination run wild.
Still…my skin prickles.
What if he’s really here?
The thought sends a shiver straight through me—sharp, thrilling…
I don’t see anyone watching, but I walk toward my car with a small, unguarded smile on my face anyway.
By the time I settle at my desk at Flint & Stone Records, I’ve managed to convince myself not to think so much about this mysterious stranger who’s suddenly added some thrill to my otherwise boring life.
My inbox is a mess, brimming with reschedule requests, calendar conflicts, last-minute additions that my boss, Mick Flint, somehow expects to materialize out of thin air.
I fall into the familiar rhythm of it, fingers flying over the keyboard, headset pressed to my ear as I juggle calls and confirmations.
This part of my job grounds me. Order from chaos.
Predictable problems with clear solutions.
It almost works.
I’m mid-email when a shadow falls across my desk.
“Delivery for Georgia.”
I glance up, and my mouth falls open at the large bouquet of sun flowers in front of my face. It’s stunning…thoughtfully arranged. My favorite flowers.
A shocked laugh escapes my lips as I try to wrap my head around the reality in front of me. I’d mentioned fleetingly how I love sun flowers because they are resilient, how they bloom even when conditions aren’t ideal, and this man sends me a whole bouquet of sun flowers.
“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath, still shaking my head in disbelief.
The delivery man shifts slightly, waiting. He’s tall. Broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his jacket, trim at the waist in a way that feels enticing. He’s wearing a hat pulled low and dark sunglasses that cover most of his face.
For a fleeting, inappropriate second, my attention drifts to the way he fills the space in front of me…the silent strength about him…
He smiles—not wide, not flashy. Just enough to be polite.
“Sign here,” he says.
His voice is low and deep. And very, very sexy.
Pull yourself together, Georgia.
I reach for the tablet, and as I do, our fingers brush. A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm so startling that I suck in a breath. He stills for half a beat, his hand retreating just as quickly as it came close, like he felt it too.
Something twists low in my stomach.
What the heck was that?
I frown, returning my attention to the flowers—an excuse to catch my breath.
Seems like my head is all muddled up since the appearance of a certain mystery man in my life and now my body is responding to some random delivery man at my workplace.
The oddity of the past few days is clearly affecting my mind.
I set the flowers carefully on my desk, sure to be gentle with the vase, but when I look up again, the deliveryman is already walking away. For a second, I stare after him, my skin tingling with awareness. There was something about him—a feeling of familiarity that doesn’t make any sense.
I can almost swear I know him, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen him before…
I turn back to the bouquet, my pulse still slightly off-kilter. That’s when I notice the card stuck between the flower stalks.
I pick it up and flip it over, my heart skipping hard at the sight of the familiar sprawling handwriting.
Georgia,
You look beautiful in the jacket, just like I imagined.
Zane
My chest tightens, my heart racing even faster.
I don’t get much work done after that.
The flowers sit on my desk like a living thing, bright and impossible to ignore.
I catch myself staring at them between calls, during meetings, while pretending to listen as my boss talks through next week’s schedule.
My thoughts keep drifting back to the man whose face I still haven’t seen yet but has managed to rock my world in ways I never imagined.
By the time the day finally ends, I’ve conceived a plan that seems cute and foolish at the same time. The moment I walk into my apartment, I go straight to my workstation, grab a Post-it and a pen, and I quickly scribble the words that refuse to leave my head.
Thank you for the flowers. They made my day.
I stick it to the front door, smoothing it flat with my palm. Then I step back, ignoring the giddy feeling in the pit of my stomach as I head back inside.
***
The next morning, a new note is waiting underneath my door, the Post-it from the previous night gone. My stomach flips as I bend to pick it up.
I don’t open it right away.
I lock the door. Set my bag down. Take a breath that doesn’t quite reach my lungs. Then I unfold the paper.
You looked stunning yesterday, little mouse.
My heart skips a vital beat. Then another.
I sink onto the edge of the small bench by the door, my breath picking up with excitement as I force myself to keep reading.
He compliments the red jacket once again and says he’s glad I chose to wear it.
Then he mentions my necklace—a thin chain with a small charm that rests just above my collarbone. He says it suits me and…
My breath hitches as a sudden realization hits me. There’s no way he would have noticed the necklace if he was watching me from a distance since my jacket would have covered it. I didn’t take the jacket off until I was at my desk. That can only mean one thing.
He didn’t just watch from a distance. He was there…in my office…
The delivery man
My fingers curl around the paper as the pieces click into place. The build. The hat. The sunglasses. The way he left too quickly. The familiarity I couldn’t name.
He delivered the flowers himself.
Now I know what he looks like—well, mostly. Butterflies flutter low in my belly as I close my eyes and let the image of him fill my mind.
He’s tall. Broad shouldered. With a head fall of dark hair and a well-groomed beard to match. Solid in a way that felt…safe. Controlled. I only saw him for a brief moment, but it was enough to make an impression.
This can’t go on like this. I need to do something.
So I grab a Post-it and a pen and press it against the door while I scribble the words that have been on my mind since I got his first letter:
Will you let me meet you?
I hesitate, then stick it firmly in place before I can talk myself out of it.
When I get home from a day of work I hardly even remember because my mind was so focused on this little game Zane and I are playing, I stop short when I see that the post-it note I left on the door this morning has a new line added to it.
I pick it up, my hand trembling slightly. My heart stops at the simple, curt phrase on the paper.
Not yet.
That’s it.
Two words.
Yet they cut so deeply. Maybe more than they should, coming from a man I’ve never met—a man I don’t even know what he looks like.
On the brighter side, he responded at least… That has to count for something.
I peel the note off the door, fold it, and keep it in my hand as I head into the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of wine, and fold the note over and over, wondering how much longer this will go on.