Chapter 5: Ghosts of Yesterday

Defeat was not in Leo Vance’s vocabulary. Confusion, yes. Anger, definitely. But the cold, hard wall May had erected between them wasn’t an end; it was a challenge. He spent the rest of the day stewing in his guesthouse, the memory of her dismissal playing on a loop. Mr. Vance. Professional relationship. Complications. The words were armor, and he knew, with an instinct he couldn’t explain, that armor was meant to protect something fragile underneath.

He would not let her erase that night. He wouldn’t let her reduce the fire between them to a clause in a rental agreement.

The next morning, armed with a new strategy, he went to the corner store. He returned not with a grand gesture, but with a weapon of quiet, targeted seduction: a bar of Dairy Milk Silk.

Under the soft glow of the porch light that evening, he approached her front door, his heart a low thrum in his chest. He didn't knock. Instead, he carefully broke off a single, perfect square of the chocolate and placed it on the wide, white railing of her porch, right where the light would catch the glint of the purple foil. It was a message in a language only they understood. A question. A dare. Remember this?

He retreated to his own window to watch. An hour later, her front door opened. May stepped out to retrieve a package left by the courier. She paused, her eyes snagging on the small, solitary object on the railing. He saw her body go still. Even from fifty feet away, he could feel the shift in her posture. She stared at the chocolate square for a long, silent moment. He imagined the sensory ghost of it on her tongue, the memory of his mouth, the heat they’d shared. He saw her hand lift, hesitate, and then, with a sharp, decisive movement, she snatched the chocolate off the railing, walked to the trash bin by the side of the house, and tossed it in.

Leo leaned his forehead against the cool glass of his window. A slow smile touched his lips. It wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped for, but it was a reaction. A violent one. She hadn't ignored it. She couldn’t. The first crack in the ice.

His next opportunity came two days later. He timed his laundry load with meticulous care, waiting until he saw her carry her basket into the small, shared laundry room located in a shed between the two houses. He gave her five minutes before following with his own hamper.

The room was small and humid, filled with the clean, warm scent of detergent and the rhythmic hum of the dryer she was loading. She had her back to him, her shoulders tense as she heard the door open.

“Mrs. Albright,” he said, his voice deliberately casual.

She flinched at the formal address, a tiny, almost imperceptible tightening of her muscles. “Mr. Vance,” she replied without turning around, her voice muffled by the sound of the dryer tumbling.

He set his basket down next to hers, creating a forced proximity in the cramped space. He could smell her shampoo, something light and floral, like the jasmine that grew on the trellis by her porch.

“Just making use of the shared facilities,” he said, pitching his voice lower, loading the phrase with the memory of her cold lecture in the garden. He reached past her for the box of detergent on the shelf. As he did, he let the back of his hand brush against hers.

It wasn't an accident. It couldn't be mistaken for one. It was a deliberate, lingering touch. A jolt went through her, a visible tremor that ran up her arm. Her breath hitched. The air in the tiny room suddenly became thick, charged, electric.

She snatched her hand back as if burned. “Excuse me,” she snapped, finally turning to face him. Her warm brown eyes were wide, a flicker of panic warring with a flash of anger. The cool facade was cracking under the pressure.

“My mistake,” he said, his own eyes holding hers, not a trace of apology in them. His gaze was a physical touch, a reminder. I can still make you feel this.

She pushed past him, her face flushed, and practically fled the laundry room, leaving her clothes to tumble in the dryer.

Leo leaned against the washing machine, the low vibration running through his body. He was getting to her. The cool, professional landlady was a phantom. The real May, the passionate, lonely woman from the stormy night, was still in there. And he was going to draw her out.

The final standoff came on Friday afternoon. He’d seen her in the kitchen through her window, a cup of coffee in her hand, staring blankly out at the garden. This time, there would be no subtlety.

He knocked on her back door, the one that led directly into the kitchen. She opened it, her face a mask of weary surprise that quickly hardened into practiced indifference.

“Mr. Vance. Is there a problem?”

“Yes, actually,” he said, stepping past her, into the warmth of her kitchen before she could object. The room smelled of coffee and cinnamon. It was her sanctuary, and he had just invaded it. “The faucet in my bathroom is dripping. I thought you might have a wrench I could borrow.” It was a lie, but it was a plausible one, playing on his role as the helpful, fix-it tenant.

“I… I think there’s one in the utility closet,” she stammered, flustered by his presence. She turned to get it, clearly desperate to have him gone.

“And there’s another problem,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. She froze, her back to him. “I need you to stop calling me Mr. Vance.”

She turned around slowly, her face pale. She clutched the edge of the granite countertop as if for support. “I don’t know what you mean. It’s your name.”

“You know exactly what I mean.” He took a step closer, closing the distance between them until only a few feet of checkered tile remained. “You can talk about the lease and shared facilities all you want, May. You can throw away chocolate and run from the laundry room. But we both know what happened on that rug. And it wasn’t a ‘complication.’”

Her composure shattered. Her breath came in shallow pants, her knuckles white where she gripped the counter. "You need to leave," she whispered, her voice trembling.

“No.” He took the final step, cornering her against the counter. He didn’t touch her, but his proximity was a cage. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a raw, intimate whisper that was meant for her alone. “I’m not trying to cause trouble. I just want you to look at me and admit that you felt it, too. That it wasn't a mistake.”

She was trapped, her back pressed against the unyielding stone. Her eyes, wide and terrified, were also dark with a familiar, undeniable heat. He saw the frantic pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. He saw the war raging within her—the fear of her ex-husband, of judgment, of being hurt again, battling against the raw, elemental pull that vibrated in the air between them.

Her gaze flickered from his eyes down to his mouth.

It was all the answer he needed.

He lowered his head, slowly, giving her every chance to turn away, to say no, to be Mrs. Albright. But she didn't move. She just watched him come, her lips parting on a silent, shaky breath. The fire he had been so determined to find was right there, in her eyes, threatening to reignite and burn them both to the ground.