Chapter 23
Evelyn
The Weekend He Stepped Into My World
The weekend with Alexander in my apartment—in my life—felt like something borrowed from someone else’s story.
Someone braver. Softer. Far less complicated than me.
He didn’t flinch when I told him where we were going.
He didn’t smirk, didn’t question, didn’t act like the CEO of Hunt International stepping into a different universe.
He just adjusted his sunglasses, slid into the passenger seat of my ancient little hatchback—the one that rattles when the AC is on—and said, low and steady, “Lead the way.” And he meant it. I don’t think he expected this.
We walk shoulder to shoulder through rows of food stalls—handwritten signs on cardboard, plastic chairs stacked crookedly, toddlers with sticky faces, whole families arguing in two languages over who gets the last roll.
The air is thick with spices and smoke, cinnamon and chili, fried dough and grilled meat. My world. My childhood. My comfort. And Alexander Hunt…lord help me.
He looks like a misplaced movie star, dropped into the wrong scene.
Black jeans. Boots. A plain shirt that somehow still looks like it cost a month of rent.
His posture is relaxed but alert; his eyes are curious but cautious.
He’s trying to look unfazed while holding a warm vetkoek in his hand, as it might spontaneously combust.
“You’re going to love that,” I say around a bite of mine.
He narrows his eyes at the pastry. Suspicious. “It’s fried.”
“Yes,” I grin.
“And it’s filled with… mince?”
“Spicy mince. Just eat it, Alexander.”
He takes a cautious bite. And his eyes go wide, pupils dilating like I just handed him a personal religious awakening. I laugh—loud, sharp, full. A sound I didn’t know I still had in me. “Told you.”
He stares at the pastry as it betrays him. “You never said it tasted like heaven covered in sin.”
“Would you have believed me?”
“No,” he admits, already taking another bite.
We sit on a bench that wobbles if you breathe too hard.
Eat with our hands. His fingers brush mine when I hand him a bottle of ginger beer, and he looks at me like the sun just changed color.
He tries koeksisters, sticky syrup clinging to his lips, and I tease him for licking his fingers too neatly.
“Relax,” I nudge him. “You’re allowed to be messy here.”
His gaze darkens. “I’m only messy with you.” Heat flares low in my belly. I pretend to ignore it. Badly.
Later, we wander through handmade stalls—woven baskets, soaps shaped like flowers, beaded anklets that sparkle in the afternoon light. Painted wooden spoons, someone carved with their bare hands.
He moves more slowly than he ever has. Touches things as they matter. Asks questions I didn’t expect him to care about. Then he stops in front of a small clay cat with a cracked tail. It’s imperfect. Unpolished. Probably made by a child who didn’t know how to smooth the edges yet.
Alexander picks it up gently—too gently for a man who usually moves like a command dressed in a suit. “She’d love this,” he murmurs.
I blink. “Who?”
A second. A shift in his jaw. He clears his throat. “No one. Just… someone I used to know.” But his face softens in a way that undoes me. And he buys it.
No hesitation. No checking the price. No pretending he’s above any of this.
For the rest of the day, he doesn’t touch his phone once.
Not once. And somewhere between the sweetness of koeksisters and the crack in that tiny clay cat’s tail, I feel something terrifying curl into my chest. Something warm. Something dangerous.
Something that feels a lot like falling.