Chapter 5
Chapter Five
I wake up extra early just in case finding a cab in this weather becomes a full-blown ordeal. As predicted, it’s pouring. The kind of rain that bounces off the pavement, softening the whole world into a blur.
And yet… I’m not stressed. I’m not spiraling or rushing to problem-solve. Must be residual Harrison happiness. I skip around the apartment like a kid who’s been handed an ice-cream cone for breakfast. I’m in a great mood, and I’m not letting anything change that.
For the first time since I arrived, I cook myself a proper meal.
Eggs. Toast. Caffeine. I take a sip of my coffee, and somehow, it tastes perfect.
Mug in hand, I skim through my closet, eventually settling on the new jeans I bought over the weekend and a jacket that sort of resembles a raincoat.
It has buttons and a hood; that counts, right? I convince myself I’m prepared.
Out of habit more than hope, I open the Uber app.
And as if the universe is actually on my side today, a ride pops up at the bottom of my screen—pick-up in five minutes.
Sure, I’ll be a little early to work, but that’s better than standing around getting soaked and regretting every life choice that’s led me here.
My driver is a gem. We chat the entire ride.
When he realizes I’m American, he dives into stories about all the times he’s visited the States.
It makes me a little homesick. He seems to notice, because he switches gears and asks me about my time here.
He recommends museums, restaurants, places to shop.
.. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I’m having a conversation with a stranger who isn’t looking right through me.
“Morning!” I chirp at Claire, dropping into my chair. She is always the first one in.
She glances, gives me a once-over, then raises an eyebrow. (Can everybody do the eyebrow trick?)
“You’re early. And… weirdly cheery.”
“Oh! I had breakfast today,” I say it like that explains everything, even though it doesn’t. My mind flickers back to my conversation with Harrison. You’re drop-dead gorgeous. I blush.
Claire squints. “What are you hiding, little miss Julia?”
“Nothing, I swear.” I try to sound convincing. “I had a good morning. Proper breakfast. Avoided the rain. That’s enough to brighten anyone’s day in this shit weather.”
“If you say so,” she mutters, turning back to her computer.
With my motivation back at peak levels, I dive into work. I’m going for a spontaneous, confidence-soaked pitch built around all the ways Summer makes us feel. Free, bold, and a little reckless. Sexy, not just coordinated.
My future in this company depends on it, and I’m determined to make this the best campaign they’ve ever seen. Frustratingly, I seem to be proving my positive reinforcement hypothesis right.
“Can we get some coffee now, please?” Lucy groans. Her pained expression makes us all laugh. “My brain is shriveling from caffeine withdrawal.”
“Julia already had breakfast, apparently,” Claire adds, wiggling her eyebrows. Everyone turns to look at me. I blush, again.
“It’s not like that,” I protest.
But could it be?
Oliver coughs purposefully. Right. Everyone’s still staring.
“Let’s go; I’ll never say no to coffee.”
We head to the breakroom and pour ourselves a reliably awful but blessedly caffeinated cup. At our usual corner table, a pack of cookies sits in the middle. It was Daniel’s turn to treat. He was not thrilled.
“Are those the jeans you bought on Saturday?” Lucy asks, mid-bite.
“They sure are,” I grin. “Tight in all the right places.”
“If they come with a side of nice breakfast, I might need a pair.”
“Will you behave?” I say. “Come over tomorrow and I will cook for you, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s alright, don’t you worry,” she smirks.
“Julia’s been here two weeks and is already getting laid more than the rest of us,” Daniel says.
I slap his arm.
“What! It’s true,” he adds, grinning.
“It’s not, though!” I groan, shooting him a deadly glare before turning to Claire. “Look what you’ve started.”
She shrugs, about to reply—when she’s interrupted by the mail guy.
“Is there a Julia Thomas here?” he asks, holding up a rectangular package. “It was sent to marketing, but no one’s there.”
Everyone looks at me. I frown. I didn’t order anything.
I nod and get up to take the box. My name is written across the side in black marker. No shipping label. No return address. Nothing. Just “Julia Thomas.”
This has got to be some sort of joke.
“Ha! Funny. This wasn’t sent through the mail,” I say, pointing at them one by one. “Who did it?”
“Not me,” Claire says, raising her hands.
Oliver shakes his head and points at James.
“Hey! It wasn’t me either,” James says. “What’s in it anyway?”
I shrug and start peeling back the tape. Inside, buried in layers of wrapping paper, is something that confirms none of them sent it.
“An umbrella?” Daniel asks, unimpressed.
Of course, it’s an umbrella.
I mutter a curse, annoyed I didn’t recognize his handwriting sooner. You’d think after reading several of his notes, I’d have noticed the strange, artsy way he writes his J’s. But I didn’t.
And now I’m stuck coming up with an explanation for why a mystery gift got delivered to me at the office.
I frown, pretending to be confused, trying to buy myself a minute to think.
Nothing comes.
“Oh, I get it!” I blurt. “Get the girl from sunny Los Angeles an umbrella, because she probably doesn’t even know they exist, let alone own one.”
I lie straight through my teeth, praying they’ll believe it and move on.
“Kind of a cliché,” I add, shrugging. “But useful. So, whoever got me this gorgeous rain-stopper, thank you kindly.”
They all exchange confused glances like we’re in a low-stakes game of Clue, and the culprit forgot to show up.
No one confesses. Everyone keeps their suspicions quiet.
“Alright, ladies and gents, let’s get back to work,” Lucy says, rising and leading the way to our corner. The rest trail behind.
I hang back, buying a few seconds to gather my thoughts about this unexpected delivery.
It’s a little past ten a.m., which means he probably woke up, went shopping for an umbrella, and dropped it off in the lobby on his morning run. I picture him in all black, baseball cap pulled low, trying not to be seen. Casually charming the front desk clerk.
He could’ve called me down. He could’ve used the fact that he knows where I work to stage some dramatic, rom-com-style ambush.
But he didn’t.
He respected my boundaries. Walked the line between persistence and pushiness and managed to make it charming. Another piece of my carefully constructed wall breaks off and crumbles by my heart’s feet.
I shoot him a text:
Stalker.
Back at my desk, deep in concept designs with Claire, my phone lights up. She grabs it before I can dismiss it and hands it over.
“Someone named Harrison sent you a voice chat,” she says, winking.
“He’s a friend from back home,” I say, a little too fast, snatching it from her hand.
She tilts her head. “Very British name.”
“It’s his surname. His dad’s English,” I offer, tone steady, lie smoother than it has any right to be.
I’m not sure when exactly I developed this lying ability, but I’m glad I have it. I’m dying to hear what he’s said, but I can’t risk her recognizing his voice.
“I’ll play it later. I need to finish this," I add, waving her off.
She buys it, and we return to work. But my focus? It’s craving its dose of reinforcement. Twenty minutes pass. I haven’t done a thing.
I finally excuse myself and head for the bathroom. It’s quiet, but I still discreetly check every stall just in case. Then, I press play.
“Oh, what would you do without me? You’re welcome, love.”
His voice is low and breathless. I shiver.
He’s still out running. You can hear the rhythm of his footsteps and the muted thrum of the city traffic. And that accent—damn. It slips under my skin like it’s ready to stay.
If anyone asks, I’m ready to take to the grave that he’s frustrating and cocky. But the truth is… this side of him? The one that doesn’t hesitate? Yeah, it’s sexy.
Who doesn’t like a man who knows what he wants? The protectiveness in this simple act speaks volumes.
I think about sending him a voice message back. I even record one—but the second I hear my own voice, I cringe. Delete. I text him instead.
You are so full of yourself, Joshua Harrison.
He replies instantly.
Harrison
Don’t act like you don’t love it.
Whatever you say.
I do have to get some work done, wouldn’t want to get sent back to L.A. before I’ve had a chance to show people around here who’s boss.
Harrison
I’d be happy to let you take control.
Talk to you later, Harrison.
And by the way…
You wouldn’t have to ‘let me’; I already have control over this whole thing.
Harrison
You wish, Thomas.
I finish the workday tired but still riding that ridiculous high. My mood is as bright as it was this morning—if not brighter.
Outside, it’s pouring. Thick clouds block every trace of daylight, and the city looks like it’s been dunked in grey. I say goodbye to the team, open my new umbrella, and step out into the storm.
The traffic is apocalyptic. The worst it’s ever been in the past two weeks. Horns scream. People shout out their windows. Everyone’s in a rush to get nowhere, fast.
I lean off the curb, scanning for the green glow of a free cab. And just as I spot one in the distance—
Splash!
An asshole driver barrels through the puddle in front of me. The umbrella may as well be a cocktail napkin.
I scream and stumble back, soaked to the bone in muddy street water. My now-stained white blouse clings to my chest. Grit squishes between my fingers where I’ve reflexively clenched them.
The chaos around me doesn’t pause; if anything, it gets worse. I wave the next cab down like my life depends on it. The driver sees me—drenched, humiliated—and stops. Probably out of pity.
I’ll take it.
Finally, everything quiets down. I hear my phone go off in my bag, but I’m too much of a mess to dig for it. I lean back in the seat, close my eyes, and try not to scream. I just want to get home.
The tree-shaped air freshener swings from the mirror, filling the cab with the smell of synthetic pine. A fake forest in the middle of a city choking on exhaust fumes. The irony makes me laugh.
Emma keeps texting and calling. I promised I’d get back to her, but right now all I want is a shower and something that doesn’t smell like sewage.
I snap a quick bathroom mirror pic and send it with a single word:
Shower.
That should buy me ten minutes of peace.
I call her as soon as I’m in pajamas. She picks up before the second ring. I lean the phone against the microwave and start cooking.
“That rain is treating you well,” she says, trying not to laugh.
“Harrison gave me an umbrella, which was super useful until a car blasted through a puddle.”
Her mouth drops.
“I swear,” I continue, “I’ve never felt more disgusting in my––”
“You saw him today?!” she blurts, cutting me off.
“Saw who?” I blink, confused.
“Joshua.” Obviously. “You said he gave you an umbrella. That’s cute.”
“Oh––no, I didn’t see him. He dropped it off at my office in a box.”
“Aww, that’s even cuter! You’re blushing.”
I cover my cheeks quickly to hide my body’s betrayal. But she’s right. I’m flushed and smiling—because of the way he wrote my name on that package… that cheeky, too-clever handwriting. Frustrating. And completely intoxicating.
My phone buzzes. It’s Harrison.
“He texted me,” I say, nerves firing up instantly.
Emma shrieks. I open the message and read it out loud.
Harrison
How was the rest of your day, love?
“One normal question and that’s enough to drive me insane,” she mutters over the clatter of a boiling pot.
I text back:
It was terrible.
“He’s pretty charming,” I smirk.
“Charming,” she agrees, wiggling her eyebrows. “Also, hot.”
I roll my eyes at her but confirm. “He is.”
I’m still smiling when the video call freezes. My phone buzzes in my hand. His name across my screen. I stare at it as it vibrates rhythmically.
I don’t answer. It goes to voicemail. Not a second later, another text:
Harrison
What happened?
Pick up.
“That was Harrison,” I say, as Emma reappears on my screen.
“Then why are we still talking?” she demands.
“I don’t know! I got nervous,” I say, arms flopping to my sides.
“Call. Him. Back,” she orders—and hangs up.
How is it possible to get so shaky over a phone call?
I didn’t think the breakup had wrecked me that deeply. Guess I was wrong.
I stare at his name. Count to three.
Tap the green button.