Charlotte's POV
The October rain in Los Angeles came down like bullets, and I was caught in the crossfire.
Perfect. Just perfect.
My $2,000 Louboutin heels clicked frantically against the slick pavement as I ducked into the first doorway I could find. The neon sign above flickered: "Memory Fragments Gallery."
Great. I'd gone from a power dinner with investors to hiding in some hipster art cave in Santa Monica. My silk blouse was soaked, my perfectly styled hair was dripping, and I probably looked like a drowned rat.
"Need a towel?"
I looked up to find a man emerging from the shadows of the gallery, holding what appeared to be a paint-splattered cloth. He was... not what I expected.
Ripped jeans. A t-shirt that read "Art Never Dies." Dark hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it a dozen times. And eyes—God, those eyes—the kind of blue that made you think of Mediterranean summers and dangerous promises.
"I..."
Get it together, Charlotte. You run a billion-dollar company. You don't stutter.
"I don't want to ruin anything else," I managed, gesturing weakly at my disaster of an outfit.
He laughed, and the sound hit me like warm honey. "Trust me, this place has seen worse."
When he handed me the towel, his fingers brushed mine. The contact sent electricity shooting up my arm, and I nearly dropped my phone.
What the hell was that?
"I'm Mateo," he said, his accent wrapping around the words like silk. "And you are?"
"Charlotte." My voice came out softer than I intended. More... vulnerable.
"Charlotte." He repeated my name like he was tasting wine. "Beautiful name. Like..."
He turned and pointed to a painting on the wall—a woman's silhouette against the LA skyline, sunset blazing behind her like the city was on fire.
"Like that."
I stepped closer, my breath catching. The woman in the painting... she looked like me. Same profile, same stance. It was impossible, but there it was.
"Did you paint this?" I whispered.
"Two nights ago." He moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could smell rain and paint and something distinctly male. "I dreamed about her. This woman standing above the city, looking like she owned the world but was trapped by it too."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "Trapped?"
"By her own perfection." His blue eyes found mine, and I felt like he could see straight through to my soul. "But maybe she was just waiting for someone to tell her that being imperfect could be beautiful too."
The rain had stopped, but suddenly I didn't want to leave.
"Do you... come here often?" I asked, then immediately cringed. Real smooth, Charlotte. What's next, asking about his sign?
"I own this place," he said with a grin that made my knees weak. "Or rather, I'm about to lose it. Landlord gave me three months to pay up or get out."
"How much?" The question tumbled out before I could stop it. I never spent money without a business plan. Never.
"Thirty thousand." He shrugged like it was nothing. "Probably what you West Side girls spend on shoes."
I glanced down at my Louboutins and actually laughed. "How do you know I'm from the West Side?"
"The way you hold yourself," he said, that playful smile dancing on his lips. "Plus, you looked like a lost deer when you ran in here. People from this neighborhood don't panic in the rain."
"I wasn't panicking," I protested. "I was just... adapting."
"Adapting to what? Getting wet? Or being somewhere real?"
The question hit deeper than it should have. "Both," I admitted.
He walked over to another painting—kids playing soccer on a broken street, sunlight streaming through old buildings. "So what do you think? Of this place, I mean."
I studied the artwork, really looked at it for the first time. Not as a business opportunity or a development site, but as... life. Raw, messy, beautiful life.
"It's more real than anything in my world," I said quietly.
"And what world is that?"
The world where I'm about to destroy everything you love.
"Corporate," I said instead. "Numbers and spreadsheets and conference calls."
"Sounds lonely."
The simple observation hit me like a physical blow. Because it was true. When was the last time I'd had a real conversation with someone? When had I last felt... anything?
"You know what I think?" Mateo moved closer, and I found myself holding my breath. "I think you've forgotten what it feels like to have your heart race."
"I know what that feels like," I lied.
"Do you?" He reached out, his fingers finding my wrist, pressing gently against my pulse. "Then what's this?"
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. "Caffeine," I whispered. "I had too much espresso today."
His laugh was low and knowing. "Tell me something, Charlotte."
"What?"
"When was the last time something made your heart race? Really race?"
I opened my mouth to answer and realized I couldn't. In my perfectly controlled life, everything was managed, scheduled, optimized. Including my emotions.
"I should go," I said, backing toward the door. "I have a dinner meeting."
"Charlotte." My name on his lips stopped me cold. When I turned back, he was standing in front of that painting again—the woman who looked like me.
"If you ever want to remember what it feels like to be alive," he said, "you know where to find me."
Back in the car, I tried to pull myself together. But Mateo's words, his smile, the way his fingers felt against my skin—it all burned through me like fire.
"Where to, miss?" Tom asked through the rearview mirror.
I looked at my reflection—hair messed up, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way they hadn't been in years. I looked... different.
"Home," I said, but I knew that after tonight, the word 'home' would never mean the same thing.
For the first time in my perfectly planned life, I'd felt something real. Something dangerous.
And tomorrow, I'd be sitting in a boardroom, discussing the Downtown Regeneration Project that would probably destroy everything Mateo loved.
But tonight? Tonight I just wanted to remember the way a stranger's smile had made me feel alive.
When was the last time something made your heart race?
The answer was: tonight. In a run-down gallery, with a man whose last name I didn't even know.
And God help me, I wanted to feel it again.