STRANGE FEELINGS
553 Words
Rose sighed, dropping her fabric shears onto the cutting table with a soft clack. She was in her studio, surrounded by the hum of her sewing machine and the scent of crisp fabric, but her focus was jagged.
The silence of the shop felt heavier than usual, oppressive in its stillness. She walked to the front window, pressing her hand against the cool glass as she peered out at the street. She was agitated, a restless energy buzzing beneath her skin that she couldn't quite attribute to her workload.
The events at The Willow had settled into the rhythm of Rose’s life like a persistent, quiet melody. It had been four(4) days, and while she told herself it was just a fleeting encounter, she found her mind drifting back constantly.replaying the scene: the way Alexander had leaned in, the ease with which he’d smoothed over her anxiety, and the unexpected warmth that had filled the space between them. Every time the bell above her shop door chimed, a small, involuntary part of her hoped it might be him, even though common sense told her he was a billionaire CEO with a world far removed from her needle and thread.
She hadn't heard from Marcus. The phantom date had left a void, but it was occupied—not by the disappointment of a no-show, but by the memory of the man who had filled that time instead.
Rose paused, her hand hovering over a piece of silk. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror—the same one she’d checked a dozen times that morning. She wasn't just thinking about the encounter; she was dissecting it, wondering why a man of his stature had gone out of his way to be so profoundly... normal.
Unbeknownst to her, three blocks away, a black sedan sat idling near the corner of her street. Inside, Alexander was watching the reflection of the shop’s interior through the glass, his gaze patient and entirely devoid of the 'polite stranger' mask he had worn days ago.
He watched a shadow move across the front window of the shop—Rose, pacing slightly as she wrestled with her thoughts. He didn't need to be invited. He simply needed to decide when the next act of his design would begin.
Her phone, resting on a pile of patterns, buzzed against the wood. She startled, her heart giving a sharp, uncomfortable leap. She snatched it up, hoping—and fearing—that it might be him, though she had no idea how he would even have her number.
It was just an automated notification from her bank. She let out a breath, a mix of relief and stinging disappointment, and dropped the phone back onto the table.
Across the street, Alexander watched her reaction through the tinted glass of his sedan. He saw the way she checked the device, the slight slump of her shoulders, and the way she turned back to the window, searching the street as if looking for someone who wasn't there.
He leaned forward slightly, his shadow falling across the seat. He pulled his own phone from his pocket, his thumb hovering over the screen as he sent a quiet message. TO THE OLD HOUSE TOMORROW).
- Writer
