Page 35 of Captured Heart

He quirks a brow. “I’m always on time.”

He steps in, and as he brushes past me, his shoulder lightly grazes mine. The heat of the contact lingers longer than it should, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from overanalyzing it. His presence feels bigger than the small hallway should hold.

“Nice place,” he says, looking around.

Maybe it’s because of our conversation on Thursday, but I see how he operates now. His eyes scan the room, taking in every detail. It’s so subtle, though. I wouldn’t have even noticed if I didn’t know this interesting fact about him.

“Cool vase,” he comments idly. He turns the vase on the hallway table a few degrees to study the details of the design. “I like this color.”

I make a mental note to turn it back once he’s gone. There’s a hidden camera on it to monitor whoever comes through thefront door, and he’s now turned it to face the wall. There’s also a camera facing the back door, and another strategically placed near the staircase to have an overview of the entire downstairs area.

My dad’s office got broken into a few weeks ago, and he went into a paranoid frenzy. He installed cameras all over this house and at their house in Oakland. I know he’s overprotective, but this was a little overboard. I’ve been living here since I started studying at UC Berkeley and have never had a single incident.

The cops tried to assure him that the break-in at his office was completely random, just thieves looking to make a quick buck from reselling stolen electronics. Yes, they took his laptop and his iPad, but they stole two printers and a coffee machine, for goodness’ sake. It seemed pretty mediocre to me, but my dad still insisted he was targeted and upped the security here.

I wasn’t keen on the idea because he and the security company have access to all the footage, and my privacy is important to me. But then he suggested a bodyguard to watch over me twenty-four-seven, and that’s where I drew the line. We compromised on the three cameras downstairs andtwelveoutside, but nothing upstairs. I don’t want my dad or anyone else catching glimpses of me half-naked when I go in and out of the shower. It’s just too weird.

Alex continues moving through the house, his sharp eyes scanning every detail of the living room. He’s drawn to the shelf filled with family photos, the frames polished to a shine despite their vintage design.

“This is nice,” he says, nodding toward the collection.

“Those are my grandparents. This was their house.”

“I know.”

Of course, he knows. That one is easy to guess. The drapes, the carpets, and the furniture all scream 1960s. It’s like theentire room is a time capsule, lovingly preserved down to the smallest detail.

He steps closer to the shelf, leaning in to inspect the pictures, and zooms in on the one of my gran holding me as a baby. “You look like your gran.”

“Thanks. That’s the best compliment anyone’s ever given me.”

His gaze shifts, settling on a small brass object nestled between two photo frames. He picks it up, turning it over in his hand. “A compass?”

“Yeah.”

He flicks it open, inspecting the needle as he turns it from side to side. “Doesn’t work.”

I giggle. “It’s not supposed to.”

His brow furrows, and he doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s waiting for an explanation.

“When I was thirteen, I stole lipstick from a department store because my mom wouldn’t let me wear makeup. I got caught, and my parents were furious. My dad was disappointed, my mom was mortified, and I thought I was never going to hear the end of it.” I smile. Even though I was upset and embarrassed at the time, it ended up being one of my fondest memories. “But my grandad handled the situation a little differently. He didn’t judge or yell, but he gave me that compass as a symbol of sorts. He said it wasn’t for direction because the onus was on me to know the difference between right and wrong. I still remember how he placed it in my hand and told me that the right path isn’t always the easy path, and I needed to be strong enough to make the hard choices.”

Alex is silent for a moment, studying the compass again. His thumb brushes over its surface, the brass worn smooth from years of me rubbing it the same way. “I wish I’d had someone like that in my life. Things would’ve been very different.”

There’s something raw in his tone, a vulnerability I wasn’t expecting. The urge to ask about his mother wells up in my throat, but I swallow it down. It’s too soon, and I doubt he’d answer, anyway.

Instead, I clear my throat and point my thumb toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I made some lunch.”

He glances up at me, his usual expressionless mask slipping back into place. “I could eat.”

“Great. Come on, the kitchen’s this way.”

Alex lingers just long enough to set the compass back on the shelf, his fingers brushing it one last time before he follows me.

I lead him to the kitchen, take out two bowls from the overhead cupboard, then carry them to the stove to dish up a helping for both of us. He pauses, looking at the meal.

“You didn’t have to go all out.”

---