4. Are you following me?

I spent the night tossing and turning, wrestling with my thoughts. I couldn’t get him out of my head. The way John looked at me, as if he knew something I didn’t. As if it was only a matter of time before I surrendered at his feet. And damn it, part of me wanted to fall.

But no. I wasn’t going to let the attractive, charming, billionaire John Blackwell slip into my life and turn it into chaos. That’s what he did—he created chaos around him. And I already had enough with the disaster that was my writing career.

The next day, I tried to focus on my work, but I couldn’t string two coherent sentences together.

Every time I tried to picture a character, that character became John. His damn eyes, that mocking smile, his hands brushing my skin... Enough!

“You’re losing your mind, Catherine,” I muttered to myself, slamming the laptop shut in frustration. “This has to stop.”

I decided to head to my usual café, my sanctuary. Maybe a change of scenery would help me write.

But of course, because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, there he was when I arrived.

He spotted me the second I walked in, lifting an eyebrow and smiling like he knew something I didn’t. Sitting in the corner, calmly reading a newspaper, like he owned the world. I hated him. I hated him because, even then, I couldn’t stop the flicker of attraction I felt.

I took a deep breath and decided ignoring him was my best option. I walked to the counter, ordered my coffee, and chose the table farthest away from him. I was determined to focus, to carry on as if John Blackwell wasn’t an emotional earthquake about to shake me to the core.

But of course, he wasn’t going to let it slide that easily. Barely a minute passed before he appeared at my table, that triumphant smile on his face.

“Are you following me?” I said, without looking up from my laptop.

“Following you?” John let out a soft laugh and sat down without asking. “I was here first. Looks like you’re the one who can’t stay away from me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just a coincidence.” I tried to sound indifferent, but my tone came out sharper than I’d intended.

“I’ve said it before: I don’t believe in coincidences.”

I closed my eyes for a second, counting to ten in my head, trying to stay calm. When I opened them, I fixed him with a serious look.

“Look, John, about last night…” I began, not really sure where I was going with it. But of course, he didn’t let me finish.

“About last night what?” he leaned toward me, resting his elbow on the table, that damn intense gaze trained on me. “You want to forget it? Pretend it didn’t happen?”

“That’s what any sensible person would do,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Fortunately for both of us, I’m not sensible. And, from what I can tell, neither are you.” He smiled at me with that maddening confidence that infuriated me and melted me all at once.

“I’m not your charity case, John. If you think you can ‘fix’ me or something, you’re wasting your time.”

“I never said I wanted to fix you,” he replied, suddenly serious. “I like you just as you are. Sarcasm, walls, fear—you, exactly as you are.”

I stared at him, caught off guard by the honesty in his words. I couldn’t tell if he was playing a game or if he really meant it. There was something in his tone that didn’t fit the arrogant, shallow John I thought I knew.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I said, but my voice was weak. Even I heard the lack of conviction.

“Then let me get to know you,” he said softly, but there was an intensity in his voice that made me shiver. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head.

“The worst? That you’ll get sick of me when you realize I’m not the kind of woman who fits into your perfect world.”

“My perfect world?” John let out a short, humorless laugh. “Believe me, Catherine, my life isn’t as perfect as you think.”

I looked at him, thrown. For the first time, I saw something in his eyes that wasn’t confidence or amusement. Something deeper. Almost vulnerable. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he said suddenly, his tone shifting like that moment of revelation had never happened. “No pressure, no expectations. Just… dinner. What do you say?”

I stared at him, trying to figure him out. I knew that agreeing to dinner with John Blackwell wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Nothing with him was simple.

But there he was, with that damn smile, his eyes glinting like he already knew I’d made up my mind, even if I didn’t want to admit it.

I sighed. I was out of my mind. Definitely.

“Fine. Dinner. Just one.” I held up a finger to make my point clear. “And don’t get any ideas.”

John grinned, victorious, like he’d won a small battle.

“Eight o’clock?” he asked, already rising from the table with that unstoppable energy.

“Eight o’clock,” I confirmed, without looking at him.