Chapter Fourteen - Hannah
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hannah
"He's here again," Sophie muttered, helping Hannah set up for the seniors’ monthly craft afternoon. "Third time this week."
Hannah didn't need to look up to know James had entered the room. She'd felt his presence the moment he walked in, like a shift in atmospheric pressure. "He's probably just trying to improve his image in the building."
"By learning how to make friendship bracelets?"
Hannah risked a glance. James was sitting with Mr. Thompson, actually listening as the older man explained the intricate pattern of knots. His suit jacket was draped over a chair, his sleeves rolled up. The sight of James Park's bare forearms should not have been so distracting.
"Stop looking," Sophie hissed.
"I'm not looking." Hannah focused on arranging craft supplies with unnecessary intensity. "I'm just... monitoring the situation."
"Right. Like you were 'monitoring the situation' yesterday when he helped Mrs. Peterson with her groceries. And the day before when he fixed Mr. Chen's wifi."
"He's obviously trying to prove something." Hannah said dismissively, concentrating on sorting embroidery floss. "It's just another performance. Like Valentine's Day."
But it didn't feel like Nero's. That James had been all polish and calculation. This James... this James had just spent ten minutes learning a complicated bracelet pattern just because Mr. Thompson wanted to make one for his granddaughter.
"Hannah, dear?" Mrs. Chen appeared with more supplies. "Could you show James how to do the advanced pattern? He seems to be struggling."
"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "I mean, I'm sure Mr. Thompson can—"
"I just thought, since you're so good at teaching..." Mrs. Chen's innocent tone fooled no one. "And Mr. Thompson's arthritis is bothering him today."
Hannah looked at Mr. Thompson's slightly trembling hands. Damn Mrs. Chen for knowing exactly how to get to her. She couldn't let the elderly man strain himself just because she was avoiding James.
"Fine." She squared her shoulders like she was heading into battle. "Just the pattern."
James looked up as she approached, surprise flickering across his features. She pulled up a chair, careful to maintain professional distance, and selected fresh embroidery floss.
"Like this," she demonstrated, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. "Under, then over, then through the loop."
She could feel his attention on her hands, intense in that way he had of focusing completely on whatever was in front of him. His sleeve brushed her arm as he attempted to copy her movements, and she forced herself not to react to the contact.
"No," she said, her teacher voice taking over despite herself. "You're pulling too tight. It needs room to—" She stopped herself from reaching to adjust his hands. "Try again. Looser this time."
James frowned in concentration, his usually perfect hair falling into his eyes as he bent over the threads. Something about seeing him like this—present, trying, actually listening to instruction—made her chest tight.
"Better," she said when he successfully completed a sequence. The genuine pleasure that crossed his face at her approval felt like a punch to the stomach.
"Thank you," he said softly, and when he smiled at her—for a moment, just a moment—she forgot to guard against him.
"I should check the refreshments," she said abruptly, standing. She retreated to the kitchen where Sophie waited with knowing eyes.
"He's actually not bad at it," Sophie observed. "The bracelets, I mean."
"Of course he's not." Hannah slammed a cookie tray down with more force than necessary. "James Park excels at everything he does. That's the problem."
"Is it?"
"Yes! Because it means—" Hannah broke off, realizing she was crushing a perfectly innocent cookie. "It means I can't tell what's real anymore."
She looked back into the main room. James was frowning in concentration, his perfect hair slightly mussed, as he carefully selected thread colors. Something about the scene made her chest tight.
"I can't do this again," she whispered. "I can't start seeing things that aren't there."
"Maybe," Sophie said carefully, "the problem isn't what you're seeing. Maybe it's that you're afraid to trust what you do see."
Hannah watched as James held up his finished bracelet, genuine pleasure crossing his face when Mr. Thompson approved. For a moment—just a moment—Hannah imagined him as someone else entirely. Someone real.
She turned away before he could catch her watching.
"It doesn't matter what I see," she said firmly. "James Park is very good at whatever role he thinks will get him what he wants. I'm not interested in being played for a fool. Not again."
But even as she said it, her traitorous eyes kept drifting back to his rolled-up sleeves, his careful hands, his gentle patience.
══════════════════
Hannah was heading to check the building's mailroom when she heard Mrs. Peterson's voice, thin with distress: "Oh dear, oh dear..."
She rounded the corner, then stopped abruptly. James was already there, kneeling beside Mrs. Peterson's walker, gathering scattered photographs that had spilled across the floor.
He hadn't seen her. More importantly, he hadn't seen anyone who mattered to his image. No audience, no witnesses, just an elderly woman close to tears over her memories scattered on the ground.
"It's alright," he was saying, his voice different somehow. Softer. "We'll get them all. None of them are damaged."
"But they're all out of order now." Mrs. Peterson's hands fluttered anxiously. "I had them arranged by year, you see. For my granddaughter's project..."
"Tell me about this one." James held up a photo, and something in his gesture made Hannah press back against the wall, suddenly unwilling to interrupt. "When was it taken?"
"Oh, that's from the summer of '65. See how Harold's holding the fishing rod? He was terrible at fishing, but he kept trying because I mentioned once that I liked fresh trout..."
James was actually listening, Hannah realized. Not just nodding politely, but asking questions, noting details. His usual perfect posture was forgotten as he sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully arranging photos into piles as Mrs. Peterson talked.
"...and this one?" He held up another photograph.
"Our first dance after he came home from the war. My dress was borrowed, and his uniform was wrinkled, but oh, how he smiled..."
Something shifted in James's expression—a softness Hannah had never seen before. "You can tell," he said quietly. "How much he loved you. It's right there in his face."
The James she had daydreamed about would never sit on a lobby floor in a thousand-dollar suit, listening to decades-old love stories. That James was all surface, all performance. This James... this James was handling faded photographs like they were precious things, learning the history of a love story that couldn't possibly benefit his social status.
"Hannah helped me organize these last month," Mrs. Peterson was saying. "Made a whole system..."
Hannah expected James to stiffen at her name, to retreat behind his usual polish. Instead, he just smiled, a small, real thing. "You're lucky to have her."
The softness in his voice made her heart stumble.
"There," he said finally, helping Mrs. Peterson tuck the organized photos back into their envelope. "All in order. May I walk you back to your apartment?"
"Such a gentleman," Mrs. Peterson patted his arm. "You know, you remind me a little of my Harold. He took a while to figure things out too."
James's laugh was self-deprecating, almost vulnerable. "I think I'm a bit slower than Harold."
Hannah pressed a hand to her chest, trying to quiet the dangerous flutter there. This wasn't the James who'd left her at Nero's. This wasn't even the James who'd been carefully performing community service all week.
This was someone else entirely. Someone real.
"Stop it," she whispered to herself. "One genuine moment doesn't erase what he did."
But as she headed for the elevator, she couldn't help remembering the remorse in his voice, the unguarded way he'd smiled, the simple truth of him sitting on the floor in his expensive suit, learning the history of someone else's love story.