Page 16 of Falling for the Grump Billionaire

And I’m not sure I can live with that.

5

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Eva

The coffee shop smells like burnt espresso and overripe bananas, a combination that would normally irritate me. Tonight, I barely notice. My eyes flick to the door every few seconds, scanning for anyone who fits the vague description Nathan gave me over the phone.

He said he’d be here at 6:30 sharp. It’s now 6:50, and there’s no sign of him.

I stir my tea with mechanical precision, the clinking of the spoon against the ceramic mug the only sound at my table. My instincts are screaming at me to leave. Something about this feels off—maybe it’s the public meeting spot, or the fact that Nathan hasn’t called to explain his delay. Or maybe it’s the prickling unease I’ve felt since last night when I was sure someone was watching me.

And then there’s the warning, still etched in my memory:“Stay out of this, or you’ll regret it.”

I glance at my phone again, scrolling through my messages. Nothing. Just the blank silence of a contact who’s either bailed or decided I’m not worth the risk.

The barista clears her throat behind the counter, startling me. I shake my head, annoyed at how jumpy I’ve become. I’ve handled worse than this. But tonight, every shadow feels sharper, every stranger more threatening.

By 7:00, I’ve had enough. I slip my notebook into my bag and stand, tossing a crumpled five-dollar bill onto the table for the tea I didn’t drink. Outside, the city hums with its usual evening rhythm—cars honking, distant laughter from nearby bars, the sharp whistle of the wind between buildings.

The subway station is crowded, the air thick with the mingling scents of hot pretzels and damp concrete. I swipe my card and step onto the platform, keeping my eyes on the electronic display counting down the next train. Two minutes. I lean against a pillar, my fingers tapping against my phone as I make a list of potential next steps.

But the unease doesn’t fade.

I glance over my shoulder, scanning the platform. Nothing unusual—just tired commuters and a couple of teenagers arguing over a playlist. Still, the sense of being watched lingers, prickling at the edges of my awareness.

The train screeches to a stop, and I step inside, gripping the overhead rail as it lurches forward. The ride is uneventful, but my thoughts churn, frustration and doubt tangling into a suffocating knot.

By the time I reach my apartment building, the familiar sight of crooked steps and peeling paint feels like a small relief. I climb the stairs, the sound of my keys jangling in my hand, already thinking about diving into my notes.

But as I approach my door, I stop short.

The door is slightly ajar, the chain hanging limply, as if it’s been forced open.

My breath catches, and I freeze, a dozen possibilities racing through my mind. Did I forget to lock it? No. I’m obsessive about that. Did someone break in?

The hallway is too quiet, the air heavy with a stillness that makes every sound sharper. My pulse pounds in my ears as I reach into my bag for my phone, my thumb hovering over the call button for 9-1-1.

But I don’t press it.

What would I even say? That someone might have broken into my apartment? What if it’s nothing—just a maintenance worker who forgot to close the door properly?

Swallowing hard, I push the door open, every muscle in my body coiled tight.

The living room looks exactly as I left it—books stacked on the coffee table, my half-finished cup of coffee still sitting by the sink. Nothing seems out of place, but the air feels wrong.

I step inside, my movements cautious, my gaze sweeping the space. The kitchen is empty. The bathroom door is open, the light off.

Then I see it.

My laptop sits on the dining table, the screen glowing faintly in the dim light.

I didn’t leave it like that.

My chest tightens as I approach, unease twisting into full-blown dread. The screen isn’t showing the document I was working on earlier. Instead, a blank text file waits, the cursor blinking expectantly in the corner.

And in bold, black letters:

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