Chapter 4: Sweet Provocations

The first thing Leo was aware of was the taste. A phantom sweetness, the ghost of rich, dark chocolate and acidic red wine clinging to his tongue. He smiled before he even opened his eyes, a lazy, triumphant curve of his lips. The memory followed, a flash flood of sensation: the scent of her perfume mixed with rain, the impossibly soft skin under his hands, the throaty, desperate sounds she made when he’d…

His eyes snapped open. He wasn't on her plush living room rug. He was in his own bed, in the stark, impersonal guesthouse. The sheets were cheap cotton, not the fine linen he imagined she owned. The morning sun streamed through the single window, aggressively bright, a stark contrast to the storm-darkened intimacy of the night before.

The panic came back in a cold rush. The thunderclap. The crunch of gravel. The headlights slashing across the room, catching them in a damning tableau. He remembered her face, pale with terror, her voice a sharp hiss as she shoved him towards the back door. “Go! Now!” She had handled the front, a frantic, whispered promise to deal with whoever it was. He had slipped out into the lashing rain, adrenaline thrumming, his body still on fire, and stumbled back to his own solitary space.

He threw the covers off and went to the window, peering across the manicured lawn that separated his small dwelling from her house. The storm had passed. The sky was a scrubbed, innocent blue. Her car was in the driveway, alongside a sleek, black sedan he didn’t recognize. The sight of it sent a jolt of unease through him. So, the visitor had stayed the night. Who?

He stood there for a long time, watching. Nothing. No movement. The curtains in her bedroom window remained drawn.

The guesthouse, usually a functional space he barely noticed, suddenly felt like a cage. He showered, the hot water doing little to wash away the lingering feel of her. He paced the small floor, coffee growing cold in his mug. Every creak of the old house next door made him jump. Was she okay? Was she angry? Was she, right now, lying in bed with the owner of that black sedan? The thought was a spike of pure, primal jealousy that caught him off guard with its intensity.

He couldn't stand it. He had to know. He needed to see her, to look into her warm brown eyes and see the reflection of the fire they had started.

Hours later, the black sedan was gone. He saw her then, through his window. She was in the garden that bordered the yard, kneeling by a bed of wilting roses, a small trowel in her gloved hand.

The whiplash was immediate and brutal. Last night, she had been a creature of shadow and heat, her auburn hair a wild mess from his hands, her body arching into his. Today, she was a portrait of prim composure. She wore tailored khaki trousers and a crisp white shirt, her hair pulled back into a severe, elegant knot at the nape of her neck. She was Mrs. Albright, the respectable, recently-divorced owner of the property.

His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic mix of desire and apprehension. He walked out his door, the grass still damp under his sneakers. He crossed the lawn, the short distance feeling like a mile-wide canyon he had somehow, impossibly, crossed last night. He aimed for a casual smile, hoping his face didn't betray the frantic energy coursing through him.

“Morning,” he said. He pitched his voice low, aiming for the intimate tone they had shared.

She didn't look up at first, continuing to meticulously loosen the soil around a rosebush. After a long moment, she slowly straightened her back and turned to him. Her eyes, the same eyes that had been dark with passion just hours before, were now cool and distant, shielded.

“Mr. Vance,” she said.

The name hit him like a slap. Not Leo. Mr. Vance. It was a deliberate, calculated strike, a wall of formality erected between them.

He felt his smile falter. “I, uh, just wanted to make sure everything was okay. After the storm. And your visitor.”

“Everything is perfectly fine,” she replied, her voice clipped and professional. She pulled off a gardening glove, dusting soil from her hands. “In fact, I’m glad I caught you. I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

This wasn't how this was supposed to go. He’d imagined a shared, secret smile. A whispered plan to meet again. He hadn't imagined this arctic chill.

“Oh?” he managed, his own voice sounding foreign to his ears.

“Yes,” she said, her gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder. “I was reviewing the lease agreement, and I think it’s best we clarify a few points to avoid any future misunderstandings. Specifically regarding the use of shared facilities and noise levels after ten p.m.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded. The whiplash was dizzying. Noise levels? Shared facilities? Was she serious? Last night he’d had his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her body; she had moaned his name into the rug, and now she was talking about the laundry room schedule?

He searched her face for any sign of a joke, any flicker of the woman from the storm. He saw nothing but a cool, detached landlady. He saw the way she nervously, almost unconsciously, pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear—the exact same gesture from last night, but this time it felt like she was brushing him, and the memory of them, away.

“May…” he began, the name a soft plea.

Her eyes finally met his, and they were as cold as the morning had been bright. “I believe it’s important that we maintain a clear and professional landlord-tenant relationship, Mr. Vance. For clarity’s sake. It prevents complications.”

Complications. That’s what he was. That's what last night was. A complication to be managed with clauses from a lease agreement.

The cruelty of it, the sheer dismissiveness, was breathtaking. She had built a fortress around herself overnight, and he was firmly on the outside. She gave him a tight, bloodless smile that was more of a grimace, turned her back on him, and plunged the trowel back into the dirt as if their conversation was of no more consequence than a troublesome weed.

Leo stood frozen in the middle of the lawn, the sun beating down on him. He felt utterly foolish, exposed. The taste of chocolate had turned to ash in his mouth. He looked from her rigid back to his own stark guesthouse.

Was it all a mistake she already regretted so deeply she had to pretend it never happened? Or was he just a game, a brief, reckless diversion she was now finished with? The confusion warred with a hot spike of anger and a desperate, aching desire. He didn't know the answer, but as he turned and walked back toward his own door, one thing became terrifyingly clear. He wasn't going to accept it. He couldn't. He would find a way back over that wall, even if he had to tear it down brick by brick.