She Hit a Pothole on Her Way Home, Never Guessing the Man Who Stops Is Millionaire Who Falls for Her
Walls and Worth
The next morning Daria stood behind the register at the bookstore, staring at the business card. The name printed on it felt surreal after what she’d read the night before.
She’d spent half the night researching York Nalin, trying to reconcile the man who’d calmly crouched next to her busted tire with the tech mogul on finance magazine covers. It didn’t add up. He’d acted like someone who just wanted to help.
“Hey Daria,” Mi called from the back. “Someone’s asking for you.”
She blinked.
“What? Who? Me?”
Mi tilted her head toward the front door.
“No idea. He’s dressed like he walked off a Milan runway, though. Shoes alone probably cost more than my rent.”
Daria’s heart jumped. She turned slowly and saw him. York was leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of a wool overcoat.
He looked thoroughly out of place between the cracked linoleum floor and sagging shelves.
“You followed me?” she asked, walking toward him.
“I asked the tow driver for your name,” he said. “And I looked up the bookstore. Not hard to find.”
She folded her arms.
“You know that’s borderline stalker behavior, right?”
“Borderline isn’t illegal,” he said, his voice even. “I figured if you weren’t going to text, I’d come say hi in person.”
“I didn’t text because I didn’t know what to say.”
“Start with ‘hi,'” he said. “And maybe work your way up to dinner.”
She studied his face. He wasn’t smiling to charm her; he was watching her like he was trying to figure out where her walls were and how high they went.
“I’m working,” she said. “Tonight I clean offices. Three nights a week, today’s one of them.”
He nodded.
“What time do you finish?”
“Late.”
“I’ll wait.”
She blinked.
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll be outside when you’re done. We can walk or talk, or I’ll escort you to your door and leave. Your choice.”
She stared at him, trying to read whatever this was.
“You don’t even really know me.”
“I’d like to,” he said simply.
That night, when she stepped out of the building where she cleaned, he was leaning against the Aston Martin. His coat was buttoned up and his hair was damp from misty air. She stopped short.
“You weren’t kidding.”
“I usually don’t.”
They walked in silence for a few blocks. The city was quiet this late, streets slick with rain. He didn’t try to fill the silence, which surprised her.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said finally.
“What did you expect? Someone who speaks in buzzwords or brags about crypto? That’s my younger brother. I’m the boring one.”
“You’re not boring,” she said before she could stop herself.
He looked over.
“That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
A couple passed them laughing and York stepped aside to give them room. His hand brushed her back lightly—protective but not possessive. She tried not to read into it.
“You live alone?” he asked.
“Yeah, no roommates. I had one, but she moved out to live with her boyfriend. I couldn’t afford to move, so I picked up more hours.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Must be exhausting.”
“It is.”
“Then why not stop?”
She gave him a look.
“You know why.”
“I could help.”
She stopped walking.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not offering charity,” he said without flinching. “I’m offering support. There’s a difference.”
“I don’t want to owe anyone.”
“You wouldn’t.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t get it. You’ve probably never worried about whether your card would be declined buying groceries.”
“You’re right,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I haven’t. But I’ve worried about things you haven’t.”
“Like what? Whether your pilot had the right wine stocked on your jet?”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Like losing everything I built after trusting the wrong person. Like watching my parents’ marriage fall apart because they thought money fixed problems instead of facing them.”
“Like waking up and realizing you have everything except someone who sees you for who you are, not what you own.”
Daria looked away, her throat tight.
“I don’t want anything from you,” he said. “Not your time, not your trust, not your number. I just want to see if maybe you’ll stop looking at me like I’m going to disappear.”
She didn’t answer immediately. A car splashed through a puddle nearby and a neon sign buzzed above a corner deli.
“I’m not good at this,” she said finally.
“I didn’t ask you to be good at it. I asked you to try.”
She exhaled slowly.
“You hungry?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“There’s a 24-hour diner two blocks from here. The food’s greasy, the booths are ripped, and the coffee tastes like battery acid. But the pie’s decent.”
He gave a slow nod.
“Lead the way.”
Inside the diner, they slid into a booth under a buzzing light. She ordered cherry pie while he got apple and didn’t touch the coffee.
“You always this persistent?” she asked.
“Only when I’m sure.”
“Sure of what?”
He held her gaze.
“That something’s worth chasing.”
She didn’t answer, but when the waitress dropped the check and he reached for it, she didn’t argue.
As they stepped back into the night, York glanced over.
“Can I see you again?”
She paused then nodded.
“Yeah, but next time I’m picking the place.”
“Deal.”
He opened the car door for her, even though she wasn’t getting in. She raised an eyebrow.
“Habit,” he said.
When she walked away he waited until she disappeared into her building before he drove off. For the first time in a long while, Daria wasn’t sure if the unease in her chest was fear or hope.
