The city is quieter this early. It’s not silent but it’s definitely muted under the pale stretch of morning light just beginning to settle over the skyline. I pull up along the curb, the engine of my car barely making a sound as it comes to a stop.
The door opens, cool air meeting me as I step out, already tying my hair back as I move toward the entrance of CentralPark. The path ahead is open, scattered with early runners, dog walkers, people moving through their routines without paying attention to anyone else.
Which suits me perfectly. I fall into pace quickly, my steps steady, measured. The rhythm comes easy. Breath in, breath out. The quiet impact of my shoes against the pavement is grounding enough to push everything else back.
The path curves, trees lining either side, the city fading just enough to feel distant. For a while, there’s nothing but movement. No questions, no pressure, no one watching.
By the time I slow, my pulse is elevated, breath heavier but even. I walk the last stretch, letting it taper off naturally before spotting an empty bench just off the path. I sit, leaning forward slightly, forearms resting on my knees as I catch my breath. I take off my backpack, pulling out the book I tucked inside.
It’s new. I got it yesterday from the library Valentina used to work at. It’s a copy of an African prose novel by a writer called Chinua Achebe, calledThings Fall Apart. I read it a long time ago with my mom. It was amazing. I turn the book over once in my hands before setting it down on the bench.
Someone will take it. They always do.
I brush my hands lightly against my leggings as I stand, walking away.
“Excuse me.”
The voice is close enough to stop me mid-step. It’s also British. I turn. There’s a man standing a few feet away, one hand tucked casually into the pocket of his jeans, the other gesturing lightly toward the bench. At the book.
“You left that,” he says.
I glance at it, then back at him. “I know.”
There’s a brief pause. He studies me, something curious in his expression. And then he steps toward the bench and picks up the book.
“You left it intentionally?” he asks, walking close to me now.
Not enough to crowd my space, but enough to show interest. I notice his height first. He’s tall, and blond, lean like a surfer. It’s pretty clear he’s in good shape, especially since I can see his muscles contracting under the blue shirt he’s wearing.
He’s also pretty good looking. The type of good looking that’s impossible not to notice.
“Yeah. You can have that,” I tell him, nodding towards the book in his hands.
“Chinua Achebe,” he reads out loud, studying the book before meeting my gaze again. “Can’t say I’ve ever come across the author.”
“You’ll like it.”
“So, you just leave books lying around in parks?”
“Among other places,” I say. “Anywhere people might pick one up.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly, “So what’s the idea? Civic generosity? Literary charity?”
“A little bit of both.” I shrug. “I’m just giving people access to something they might not have gone looking for.”
He smiles and it softens him a little. I don’t miss the flicker of interest in his eyes.
“You are not what I was expecting, Ms. Beaumont.”
Panic flits through me and I’m immediately on edge. “And who are you?”
He doesn’t look threatening. But men in parks who know my name and intentionally approach me aren’t exactly friendly in my book.
He straightens slightly, extending a hand. “Relax. I’m not a bad guy.”
“You’d be surprised by just how many bad guys say they aren’t one,” I mutter.
He arches an amused brow. “I’m Edward Fadden,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m supposed to meet you on Monday.”
