#1.3

Instead of dissolving, the tension thickened and slipped into my veins.

Hot and restless, like an ember waiting for a breath of oxygen to fan it to life.

Mission failed.

I turned my head and stared out the windshield, too thrown off by the

day’s events to attempt more conversation.

The nerves scaling their way up my chest and into my throat didn’t help.

I was supposed to be the cool, calm one, the one who saw the silver lining

in every cloud and remained levelheaded no matter the situation. That was

the image I’d projected most of my life because that was what was expected

of me as an Alonso.

An Alonso didn’t suffer from anxiety attacks or spend their nights

worrying about every little thing that could go wrong the next day.

An Alonso didn’t seek therapy or air their dirty laundry to a stranger.

An Alonso was supposed to be perfect.

I twisted my necklace around my finger until it cut off the circulation.

My parents would probably love Christian. On paper, he was as perfect as

they came.

Rich. Good-looking. Well-mannered.

I resented it almost as much as I resented the way he dominated the space

around us, his presence pouring into every nook and crevice until it was the

only thing I could concentrate on.

I fixed my eyes on the road ahead, but my lungs were filled with the scent

of his cologne and my skin thrummed with awareness at the way his muscles

flexed with each turn of the wheel.

I shouldn’t have gotten in the car.

Besides the warmth, the only upside was that I would get home to my

shower and bed sooner. I couldn’t wait—

“The plants are doing well.”

The statement was thrown out so casually and unexpectedly it took me

several seconds to realize that 1) someone had broken the silence, and 2) that

someone was, in fact, Christian and not a figment of my imagination.

“Excuse me?”

“The plants in my apartment.” He stopped at a red light. “They’re doing

well.”

What did that…oh.

Comprehension dawned, followed by a tiny flicker of pride.

“I’m glad.” I gave him a tentative smile now that the conversation was in

Safe, neutral territory. “They just need a little love and attention to thrive.”

“And water.”

I blinked at his obvious, deadpan statement. “And water.”

The words hung between us for a moment before a laugh broke free from

my throat and Christian’s mouth curved into the tiniest of smiles.

The air finally lightened, and the knot in my chest loosened a smidge.

When the light turned green, the powerful rumble of the engine nearly

drowned out his next words. “You have a magic touch.”

My cheeks warmed, but I responded with a small shrug. “I like plants.”

“Perfect person for the job, then.”

His plants had been on life support when I took over their care in

exchange for keeping my current rent.

After my friend and ex-roommate Jules moved out last month to live with

her boyfriend, my options were either get another roommate or move out of

the Mirage, since I couldn’t afford to cover both portions of our rent. I’d

grown attached to the Mirage, but I would rather downgrade my home than

live with a stranger. My anxiety couldn’t handle that.

Christian had already lowered the monthly rent for us when we first

toured the apartment and mentioned the regular price was out of our budget,

so I’d been shocked when he’d proposed our current arrangement after I

brought up the possibility of moving out.

It was a little suspicious, but he was friends with my other friend,

Bridget’s husband which made accepting his offer easier. I’d been taking care

of his plants for five weeks and nothing terrible had happened. I never even

saw him when I went upstairs. I just let myself in, watered the plants, and

left.

“How did you know I could do it?” He could’ve proposed any number of

tasks—run his errands, do his laundry, clean his house (though he already

had a full-time housekeeper). The plant thing was oddly specific.

“I didn’t.” Disinterest and a thread of something imperceptible twined

through his voice. “It was a lucky coincidence.”

“You don’t seem like someone who believes in coincidence.”

Christian’s lack of sentimentality bled through in everything he did and

wore—the sharp lines of his suit, the calm precision of his words, the cool

detachment of his gaze.

They were the traits of someone who worshipped logic, power, and cold,

hard pragmatism. Not something as nebulous as coincidence.

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