10. Sloane #2
The contact card popped onto my screen five seconds later. Andrew Maxwell. I hit dial.
He answered on the second ring.
His voice was deep and settled, carrying a faint aristocratic accent I couldn't place.
My first involuntary thought: His voice isn't as deep as Xavier's.
"Andrew," I started. "This is Sloane Ty. My father is apparently operating under the delusion that handing his daughter's home address to strangers is standard social protocol."
He let out a booming laugh, a great one. "He warned me you might not be thrilled with the logistics. Apologized in advance on your behalf."
"I'm choosing to blame him for all of this."
"That seems fair." He let it sit. "My own father's pulled similar stunts. Different corporate circumstances, same aggressively helpful energy."
The tension in my shoulders eased a fraction.
"I was thinking we'd meet at a café," I suggested. "Somewhere public, during daylight, nowhere near my building."
"A more sensible plan," he agreed. "Send me the location."
I rattled off a trendy spot downtown. He said he could be there in fifteen minutes. I shut that down. I needed a full hour to prep and change. He agreed to an hour, and we hung up.
I was applying my last layer of makeup when my phone went off against the counter. An unknown number lit the screen.
The text was from Xavier.
I caught the edge of the counter. Two seconds later the same number rang, and my thumb swiped accept before my brain could stop it.
"Hello."
Through the speaker, his voice sounded richer, deeper than Andrew's.
"Yeah, hello," I answered, fighting to sound bored.
"It's Xavier."
"Yeah, I deciphered the text." I picked up my mascara wand. "How'd you hijack my new number?"
"Violet gave it to me."
"And why are you calling me?"
"I was curious about something," he said, his voice easy. "Wanted a direct answer."
"What's got you curious?"
"I wanted to know if you're really going to meet this guy. I think you should take your time. You shouldn't rush into a rebound just to… prove you're moving on from me."
I let out a sharp laugh. "Isn't that a little egotistical?"
"What do you mean?"
"Assuming my whole existence revolves around you," I fired back. "Assuming every decision I make is some reaction to you."
"I'm not claiming that. I'm just curious about the timing."
"I'm going out to meet someone," I confirmed, the words clipped. "And my decision has nothing to do with you."
The line went quiet and heavy.
"How do you feel," he asked, his voice dropping an octave, "about me having a serious girlfriend?"
I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror.
My throat was dry, my eyes burned, and the image of her in his doorway hadn't loosened its grip on me.
I hadn't been able to blink it out of my head since.
"I don't care," I lied. "You have a girlfriend. That's not a variable I should be worried about. You built a life. It's been eight years. Of course you should move on and be happy."
"Have you?" he challenged.
"Yes," I lied again.
He was quiet a long moment. "Okay," he accepted. "We agreed on the sidewalk to be friends. So that's what we'll be. I'm calling strictly as a concerned friend. I just wanted to know you're safe."
"Thank you," I said, my voice empty. "You don't need to worry about me anymore."
"Okay," he repeated.
The call disconnected.
I set the phone on the counter and stared into my own hollow eyes in the mirror. Then I finished my mascara, grabbed my bag, and walked out to meet Andrew Maxwell.
I hopped out of the taxi a few minutes early, stood on the sunlit pavement outside the café, and peered through the big glass window.
A man sat alone at a quiet corner table, scrolling through his phone, his broad shoulders relaxed, his posture the easy confidence of a man comfortable waiting.
Even seated, his height was obvious. He had styled blond hair, a shade lighter at the tips, cropped clean at the nape.
When he glanced up and caught the door, his eyes were a vivid blue, lighter than I'd expected, his face open and anchored by a strong jaw.
My treacherous second thought: He's handsome, but not as handsome as Xavier.
I took a breath and pushed the glass door open.
He stood as I approached, flashing a warm smile. "Sloane."
"Andrew." I nodded. "Hi."
"Hi." He gestured at the empty chair. "Please, sit. I ordered a black coffee, but I can flag the waiter for whatever you'd like."
"Black coffee's perfect." I slid into the seat.
He sat. His blue eyes dropped to my bare arms, taking in the ink before meeting my gaze. "Your father neglected to mention you had full sleeves. Those are incredible."
"Thank you." I smiled. "Though I don't get why corporate types always make such a big deal out of them. Tattoos are mainstream at this point. Half the city has one."
"It's not just the volume of ink," he corrected, leaning forward. "It's that you project a very specific, intimidating bad-girl energy."
I laughed. "There's nothing bad-girl about me. I'm a chronic introvert who happens to run a business and likes drawing permanent art on people's skin."
"I don't buy the introvert claim." His eyes crinkled.
"I'm a clinically serious introvert."
"You walked into this crowded café and made me feel like we've known each other for years," he argued. "That's not an introverted trait."
"That's a professional skill," I corrected. "I consult with nervous clients every day. I've learned how to impersonate an extrovert to keep the business running."
He leaned in, resting his elbows on the table. "So what kind of person are you, then?"
He asked me about the studio, and as I explained the business, he listened.
His blue eyes stayed on my face, never drifting toward the door, never checking his phone, never waiting for his turn to talk.
He asked me to describe the most meaningful piece I'd ever designed, and I told him the story of the rebirth infinity loop, the piece that left my young client frozen and wide-eyed when she finally saw it finished.
He asked what rebirth meant to me, and I paused to think before I gave him a real answer.
He offered his own take, and the conversation just cascaded forward.