Hayden Green, he’d said. You have the perfect last name for this community.
Now, he pegged her with a look that could only be described as vulnerable, as if something was really, really off. She wanted nothing more than to cross the room and scoop him into her arms. But she couldn’t do that. He had a fiancée. And she wasn’t looking for a romantic relationship.
No matter how hot he was.
“Tea,” she reminded herself and then stepped around him to walk to the kitchen.
Tate slipped out of his leather jacket and hung it on an honest-to-goodness coatrack in between the door and the television. His shirt beneath was dry, thank goodness, and his pants were in the process of drying, but he kicked off his shoes rather than track puddles through Hayden’s apartment.
Since he’d personally approved the design of every structure in SWC, he knew this building. He’d expected her place to be both modern and cozy, but she’d added her own sense of unique style. Much like Hayden herself, her apartment was laid-back with a Zen feel. From the live potted plants near the window to the black-and-white woven rug on the floor. A camel-brown sofa stood next to a coffee table, its surface cluttered with books. Oversize deep gold throw pillows were stacked on the floor for sitting, a journal and a pen resting on top of one of them.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.” He was still drying his hair with the towel when he leaned forward to study the photos on the mantel above a gas fireplace. He’d expected family photos, maybe one of a boyfriend, or a niece or nephew. Instead the frames held quotes. One of them was the silhouette of a woman in a yoga pose with wording underneath that read, I bend so I don’t break, and the other a plain black background with white lettering: If you stumble, make it part of the dance.
“Do you have a tea preference?” she called from the kitchen.
“Not really.”
He didn’t drink tea, though he supposed he should, since he’d recently learned he was from fucking London.
“I have green, peppermint and chai. Green has caffeine, so let’s not go there.” She peeked at him before tucking the packet back into the drawer like she’d intuited a pending breakdown.
Great. Nothing like an emasculating bout of anxiety to finish up his day.
“Peppermint would be good if you were nauseous or ate too much, and chai will warm you up.” She narrowed her eyes, assessing him anew. “Chai.”
“Chai’s fine. Thanks again.”
She set about making his tea and he watched her, the fluid way she moved as she hummed to herself in the small kitchen. Stepping into Hayden’s apartment was a lot like stepping into a therapist’s office, only not as stuffy. As if being in her space tempted him to open up. Whether it was the rich, earthy colors or the offer of a soothing, hot drink he didn’t know. Maybe both.
He was surprised she’d invited him in, considering she’d found him standing in a downpour staring blankly at the window.
Probably he should get around to addressing that.
She set the mugs on the coffee table, and he moved to the sofa, debating whether or not to sit.
“You’re dry enough,” she said, reading his mind. She swiped the towel and disappeared into the bedroom before coming back out. Her walk was as confident as they came, with an elegance reminding him of Claire.
Claire. Her last words to him two weeks ago kept him awake at night, along with the other melee of crap bouncing around in his head.
I can’t handle this right now, Tate. I have a job. A life. Let’s have a cooling-off period. I’m sure you’d like some time alone.
He felt alone, more alone than ever now that the holidays were coming up. His adoptive parents were fretting, though he tried to reassure them. Nothing would reassure his mother, he knew. Guilt was a carnivorous beast.
Hayden lit a candle on a nearby shelf, and he took back his earlier comparison to Claire. Hayden was completely different. From her dark hair to her curvy dancer’s body.
Pointing to the quote on the mantel, he said, “I bet you’ve never stumbled a day in your life.”
With a smile, she sat next to him and lifted her mug. “I’ve stumbled many times. Do you know how hard it is to do a headstand in yoga?”
“How is the studio doing? I was considering trying a class.” A clumsy segue, but that might explain why he’d been lingering outside like a grade A creeper. “I’ve been...stressed. I thought yoga might be a good de-stressor.”
“Yoga’s a great de-stressor,” she said conversationally, as if him coming to this conclusion while standing in a downpour was normal. “I teach scheduled group classes as well as private sessions.”
“One on one?” He’d bet her schedule was packed. Being in her presence for a few minutes had already made him feel more relaxed.
“Yep. A lot of people around here prefer one-on-one help with their practice. Others just like being alone with no help at all, which is why I open the space for members once a week.”
“That’s a lot of options.” She must work around the clock.
“There are a lot of people here, or haven’t you noticed, Mr. Spright Island?” She winked, thick dark lashes closing over one chocolate-brown iris. Had she always been this beautiful?
“I noticed.” He returned her smile. There were just shy of nine hundred houses in SWC. That made for plenty of residents milling around town and, more often than he was previously aware, apparently in Hayden’s yoga studio.
“I don’t believe you want to talk about yoga.” Her gaze was a bare lightbulb on a string over his head, as if there was no way to hide what had been rattling around in his brain tonight. She lifted dark, inquisitive eyebrows. “You look like you have something interesting to talk about.”
The pull toward her was real and raw—the realest sensation he’d felt in a while. It grounded him, grabbed him by the balls and demanded his full attention.
“I didn’t plan on talking about it...” he admitted, but she must have heard the ellipsis at the end of that sentence.
She tilted her head, sage interest in whatever he might say next. Wavy dark brown hair surrounded a cherubic heart-shaped face, her deep brown eyes at once tender and inviting. Inviting. There was that word again. Unbidden, his gaze roamed over her tanned skin, her V-necked collar and delicate collarbone. How had he not noticed before? She was alarmingly beautiful.
“I’m sorry.” Her palm landed on his forearm. “I’m prying. You don’t have to say anything.”
She moved to pull her hand away but he captured her fingers in his, studying her shiny, clear nails and admiring the olive shade of her skin and the way her hand offset his own pinker hue.
“There are aspects of my life I was certain of a month and a half ago,” he said, idly stroking her hand with his thumb. “I was certain that my parents’ names were William and Marion Duncan.” He offered a sad smile as Hayden’s eyebrows dipped in confusion. “I suppose they technically still are my parents, but they’re also not. I’m adopted.”
Her plush mouth pulled into a soft frown, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I recently learned that the agency—” or more accurately, the kidnappers “—lied about my birth parents. Turns out they’re alive and