Chapter 5
THE JACKET
EMMA
The café is tucked into a corner of the top floor, all warm lighting and mismatched chairs. My legs haven't stopped shaking, and it has nothing to do with the stairs. I can still feel the ghost of his hand, a lingering grip that makes my skin prickle.
“What would you like?”
Kai’s voice pulls me back to the present. He is studying the display case as if the pastries were a tactical problem he needs to solve.
“Hot chocolate,” I say. “And that one.” I point at a chocolate croissant. “Actually, no. That one.” I shift my finger to the lemon cake. “No, wait. The croissant. Final answer.”
He doesn't look annoyed. He doesn't check his watch or huff with the impatience I’ve come to expect.
He turns to the barista. “A hot chocolate, a chocolate croissant, a slice of lemon cake, and a black coffee.”
“You don’t have to get both.”
“You couldn’t decide.”
“That doesn’t mean you should spend—”
“Sorry,” the barista interrupts, looking sheepish. “The card machine just went down. We’re cash only for the rest of the night.”
My stomach drops. I know exactly how much cash is in my wallet, and museum pastries weren't part of the plan. I reach for my bag, but Kai is already pulling a bill from his pocket. He slides it across the counter without checking what it is.
It's a hundred.
The barista reaches for the register, and Kai picks up the tray before the change comes. The barista stares after him, then at me, like I might explain.
I can't. I'm still doing the math he didn't bother with.
“You’re not getting anything to eat?” I ask as we walk to a table.
“I don’t really do pastries.”
“You don’t do museums or pastries.” I shake my head. “What do you do, Kai?”
The question seems to catch him off guard. His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second before he smooths his expression. “Work, mostly.”
“That sounds depressing.”
“It is.”
I laugh, startled by his bluntness. “At least you’re self-aware.”
We sit by the window. The city spreads out below us in a grid of amber and white light against a bruised sky. I wrap my hands around the hot chocolate and let the steam hit my face.
“You should try a bite,” I say, pushing the croissant toward him. “Live a little.”
He looks at the pastry with suspicion.
“It won’t kill you,” I add. “Probably. I’ve known this croissant for thirty seconds, so we haven’t built that level of trust yet, but it looks friendly.”
His lips curve, barely, and my breath does something stupid. He breaks off a small piece and tries it. I watch the way his jaw works, the slight furrow between his brows as he focuses on the taste.
“Well?”
He swallows. “It’s very good.”
“There it is.” I grin. “Welcome to the world of carbohydrates. Your life will never be the same.”
“I doubt that.”
“Give it time. First museums, now croissants. By next week, you’ll be doing yoga.”
“I already do yoga.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“No.”
I stare at him. “Was that a joke?”
“Was it funny?”
“It was unexpected. Which I think is the best kind.”
He takes another piece of the croissant without being asked. I find myself watching the way he handles the fork, his movements precise and controlled.
“So,” I say, “what kind of work keeps you so busy you’ve never been to a museum?”
“Investments,” he says. “Energy sector.”
The extravagant tip suddenly makes perfect sense.
I lean back, looking at him. He has shed his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows.
His forearms are tanned and corded with muscle, the kind of strength that doesn't come from sitting in boardrooms. I wonder about the version of him that exists outside of a suit.
“Do you like it?”
He sits back and tilts his head as if no one has ever asked him that before. “Parts of it. The building. Creating something that didn't exist before. The rest is mostly meetings.”
“Meetings are the worst,” I agree. “I once sat through a three-hour debate about the correct font for an email signature. Three hours of my life I will never get back.”
“And what do you do?”
“Marketing. Graphic design and copy. Whatever Global Venture Media needs me to do, starting Monday. Assuming I don’t trip on my way into the building and embarrass myself in front of my new boss.”
“Maybe I should accompany you.”
He says it with a completely straight face. No smile. No change in tone.
“You know, in case of staircases,” he adds.
“Are you offering to be my personal staircase bodyguard?”
“If required.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely, and I realize he’s been holding back that half-smile the entire time. I laugh, caught off guard by the strange, dry wit hidden behind his intensity.
“You’re funny,” I say. “In a very quiet way.”
“I’ve never been accused of that before.”
I reach for the lemon cake to give my hands something to do. It is tart and sweet. I catch him following my fork, and I raise an eyebrow. “Want to try this one?”
“I’m still processing the croissant.”
I grin. “So,” I say, “investments in the energy sector. That's vague enough to be interesting or boring. Which is it?”
“Depends on the day.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Today was annoying.”
“So you came to stare at art instead.”
“Indeed,” he agrees.
“Did it help? Clear your head?”
He considers the question like it matters. “More than I expected.”
“The art or the company?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His eyes meet mine and hold steady. “Both.”
My stomach flips. I look away, suddenly very interested in the crumbs on my plate.
“What about you?” he asks. “Why Silverpoint?”
“Fresh start.” I aim for a casual shrug. “New city. New everything.”
“Running away or toward something?”
I buy time with the lemon tart. I think about the life I dismantled in Ashford. The version of myself I’m still trying to find.
“A little of both,” I say. “Mostly toward, I hope.”
He nods as if he understands precisely what I mean. We sit in silence for a moment, the noise of the café fading into a hum.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, steering us back to safer ground.
“My whole life.”
“And you've never been to this museum.”
“I've never been to any museum.”
“That's criminal, Kai. Truly.”
“So I've been told.” He pauses. “Tonight.”
“By me.”
“By you.”
I smile. “Well, someone had to say it.”
“And you're always this direct?”
“Only when I've had good news and hot chocolate.” I wrap my hands around the mug. “Usually I'm much more...”
“What?”
“Careful.” The word comes out quieter than I intended. “I'm usually more careful.”
There it is again. That look, like he's trying to hear what I'm not saying.
“Careful sounds exhausting,” he says.
“It is.”
“You don’t have to be careful tonight,” he says.
I don’t know if it is an observation or an invitation. Before I can answer, the café lights flicker. A barista begins wiping down the far counter with closing-time energy.
“I think we’re being evicted,” I say, checking my phone. I have three increasingly frantic texts from Zoe.
Zoe: EMMA.
If you’re dead in a ditch,
I swear to god.
I type back quickly.
Me: Alive. Got the job. At the museum café with a guy. 99% sure he’s not a serial killer. He carries a handkerchief.
Zoe: That proves NOTHING.
CALL ME.
I silence the phone and put it face down. “Sorry. My friend is invested in my survival.”
“That’s good,” Kai says. “To have people who worry.”
The way he says it makes me wonder if anyone worries about him. “Do you have that? People who check in?”
“A few.” A ghost of a smile touches his face. “Though they’d probably just show up at my door rather than text.”
I stand up and bring our plates and mugs to the counter.
“I’ll walk you out,” Kai says. It is not a question.
The galleries are empty now. Our footsteps echo off the polished floors.
“Thank you,” I say as we reach the main entrance. “For the coffee. And the pastries. It was nice to make a new friend in this city.”
His mouth pulls tight for a half-second. “Friend,” he repeats.
“Is that too forward? I don’t know the protocol for museum strangers.”
The night air hits us as we step outside. Sharp, heavy with the smell of coming rain.
“How are you getting home?” Kai asks.
“The bus stop is just around the corner.”
He frowns. “Let me drive you.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ve taken enough of your evening.”
“Then a taxi. It's cold, and it's about to pour.”
The quiet authority in his voice makes the decision feel like a gift rather than a demand.
“Okay,” I give in, “A taxi.”
He taps his phone a few times. “Five minutes.”
We stand under the museum’s glass entrance while the first drops of rain begin to fall. I rock back on my heels. This is ending. Whatever this was.
“I had a good time,” I say. “A really good time. Which is weird to say to someone I met two hours ago, but there it is.”
“It's not weird.”
“It feels a little weird.”
“Then we're both weird.”
I laugh. “I can live with that.”
The rain picks up. He looks at me for a long moment.
“Can I have your number, Emma? For staircase emergencies.”
I type my number in and hand it back. He looks at the screen and lifts an eyebrow.
“I'll remember.”
The rain turns into a downpour. Kai shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. The fabric is warm, heavy. Sandalwood and cold rain.
“You’ll get soaked,” I say.
“I’ll survive.”
The taxi pulls to the curb. Kai opens the door and keeps a hand near my back as I climb in.
“Goodnight, Emma.”
“Goodnight, Kai.”
He closes the door and leans toward the driver. I can't hear what he says, but I see the cash pass between them. I lower the window to protest, but we start moving.
I watch him through the rear window. He stands there in the rain, white shirt plastered to his shoulders, watching the car until we turn the corner.
I pull his jacket tighter around me. My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: Let me know you get home safe.
I save the contact as Kai, Handkerchief Guy.
I’m almost home when I realize I’m still wearing his jacket.
Me: Oh no. I still have your jacket.
The three dots appear and disappear.
Kai: We’ll figure something out.
I am still smiling when I fall asleep that night, his jacket draped over the chair by my bed.