Chapter Two

It had been two weeks after the Ashford soirée, but Jack Ashford's presence lingered in my mind like the melody of a song I couldn't forget. His voice, his gaze, his smile—it was maddening. I hadn’t told Beatrice, of course. She’d only gloat about being right.

She had earlier told me I would fall for Jacked but I argued that I would never fall for a playboy, and Jack was not my type.

I was back to my routine at work, tucked behind the counter of a quaint bookstore downtown. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was peaceful, and I liked the solitude.

“Excuse me,” a deep, familiar voice said, pulling me from my thoughts.

My head snapped up, and there he was, standing on the other side of the counter, looking completely out of place in his tailored gray suit and polished leather shoes. Jack Ashford.

“What are you doing here?” The words escaped before I could think to filter them.

His lips curved into a smirk. “Hello to you too, Stella.”

I blinked, my heart pounding. “How did you even—”

“Find you?” He leaned casually against the counter, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “I have my ways.”

“That’s unacceptable” I muttered, still trying to understand why he was here in my workplace.

“Relax”, he said, his voice was soothing. I smiled, hoping it didn't show on my face.

“Beatrice told me where you worked. I stopped by to see how you were doing”.

“You expect me to believe you just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “I didn’t say that. But I was curious about you.”

“Curious?” I folded my arms, trying to mask my unease. “Why?”

“You intrigue me.”

The simplicity of his answer caught me off guard. There was no arrogance, no pretense—just a quiet intensity that made it impossible to look away.

“Well, I’m flattered, but I’m busy.” I gestured to the book in front of me, though I hadn’t been reading it.

“Busy reading Pride and Prejudice for the tenth time?”

My cheeks burned. “How do you know—”

“It’s sitting right there,” he said, his smirk widening. “And you strike me as someone who appreciates a good love story.”

“Are you here to buy a book, or just to analyze me?”

“A little of both,” he admitted. “What do you recommend?”

I hesitated, then reached for a novel on the shelf behind me. “The Great Gatsby. It’s about ambition, wealth, and heartbreak. You might relate.”

He took the book from my hands, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. “Do you think I’m like Gatsby?”

I shrugged, refusing to be drawn in by his charm. “You tell me.”

Jack studied the cover for a moment, then set the book on the counter. “I’ll take it.”

I rang him up, feeling the weight of his gaze the entire time. When he handed me his credit card, our fingers brushed again, and I swore I felt a spark.

“Thanks for the recommendation,” he said, slipping the book into a sleek leather briefcase. “But don’t think this is the end of our conversation.”

“What does that mean?”

He smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. “It means I’ll see you soon.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving me with more questions than answers.

True to his word, Jack didn’t stay away for long. Over the next few weeks, he showed up at the bookstore almost daily, each visit more baffling than the last. Sometimes he’d buy a book; other times, he’d sit in the corner and pretend to read while stealing glances at me.

“You’ve got a stalker,” Beatrice teased one afternoon when I finally confided in her.

“He’s not a stalker,” I protested. “He’s just...persistent.”

“Persistent and handsome,” she said with a wink. “Don’t fight it, Stella. Let yourself have a little fun.”

Fun. That’s what Beatrice always called these things. But there was something about Jack Ashford that felt different—dangerous, even.

One rainy evening, as I was closing up the shop, Jack appeared again, his suit slightly rumpled as if he’d had a long day.

“You’re late,” I said before I could stop myself.

“Late?” He raised an eyebrow.

“For your daily visit.”

He laughed, the sound softer than usual. “You’re starting to expect me.”

“I’m starting to wonder if you have nothing better to do.”

His expression turned serious. “What if I don’t?”

I hesitated, caught off guard by his honesty. “Why are you here, Jack?”

“I told you. You intrigue me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He stepped closer, and the air between us suddenly charged. “Maybe I don’t have one. Maybe I just like being around you.”

My heart raced, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. “You don’t even know me.”

“Then let me.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he held up a hand.

“Wait,” he said, pulling something from his pocket. It was a folded piece of paper.

“What’s that?”

“An invitation.” He handed it to me, his eyes watching my reaction carefully.

I unfolded the paper and read the elegant script. It was an invitation to a gala—a charity event hosted by the Ashford Foundation.

“You’re inviting me to this?” I asked, incredulous.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you there.”

I stared at him, trying to read his expression. But Jack Ashford was an enigma, his true intentions hidden behind a mask of charm and confidence.

“I don’t belong at something like this,” I said finally.

“Stella.” His voice was soft, almost tender. “You belong anywhere you want to be.”

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, I let myself believe them.

The night of the gala arrived far too quickly. Beatrice, of course, had insisted on helping me find a dress.

I told her about Jack’s invitation to the gala, and even though she wasn’t happy with the idea of going out with him, she let me go with a stern warning that I should be careful.

She’d chosen a black, floor-length gown with a plunging neckline that made me feel both elegant and exposed.

“You look stunning,” she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork.

I wasn’t sure if stunning was the right word, but when Jack saw me that evening, the way his eyes widened ever so slightly told me Beatrice might have been right.

“You clean up well,” he said, his voice low and warm as he offered me his arm.

“So do you,” I replied, unable to keep the smile from my lips.

The gala was a whirlwind of glittering lights, flowing champagne, and elegant music. Jack stayed by my side the entire evening, introducing me to people I’d only ever read about in magazines.

But it wasn’t the glamour that stood out. It was the way Jack looked at me—like I was the only person in the room.

By the time the night ended, I felt like I’d stepped into a dream. But as Jack walked me to the car, a quiet voice in the back of my mind whispered a warning.

Men like Jack didn’t fall for women like me. And if they did, it was never without consequences.