Lacee Daniels

Here we go again.  Another new start. After two years of dating and one year of cohabitating in what I have to remind myself is technically Ben's house, he finally proposed. We soon realized the existing space wouldn't cut it—especially the outdated kitchen. I like to think I'm a decent cook, but even I can see how a more efficient and larger counterspace with modern appliances could elevate my culinary game. So, that's how we find ourselves in this gorgeous beachfront apartment, boasting views that could make a postcard jealous. This will be our sanctuary for the next seven or eight months.

When I'm not lost in the world of my crime fiction, I'm dedicating my time to the things that bring me joy and keep me grounded. Most mornings, I lace up my running shoes, do yoga, or head to the gym. I adore the solace of music, letting it wash over me as I water my beloved plants or lose hours with a gripping book.

My friends often joke about my matchmaking tendencies; I can't help but try to find everyone their perfect partner. Ironically, while I'm engrossed in these hobbies, Ben is often away, deeply engrossed in overseeing the renovation of our future home. Our lives seem to run on parallel tracks, rarely intersecting.

And so, our relationship is on the rocks—maybe even at the bottom of the ocean—and the clock is ticking toward our December deadline, when we'll move back into our renovated home. 

Right now, my immediate priority is to get this apartment in shape for Ben's arrival. I want to create a seamless transition for him so he can dive straight into his work from his new home office. Thankfully, the movers have already done the heavy lifting, unwrapping furniture and whisking away what felt like a mountain of empty boxes. All that's left for me is a life-sized game of Tetris, arranging each piece just so throughout the apartment. This is the part I actually enjoy!

I lose myself in the next four hours, rearranging end tables and lamps as if they're chess pieces in an ongoing strategic battle for aesthetic perfection. Not once, not twice, but multiple times, I shift them until they're positioned just so. Simultaneously, I tackle the rest of the apartment, cleaning every surface and corner with meticulous care. I fluff pillows, fold linens, and arrange them in the linen closet like a display at a high-end department store.

The kitchen becomes my next project. I unpack boxes of utensils, sort them into drawers, and alphabetize my spice rack because, well, why not? After all, a well-organized kitchen is the backbone of a well-organized life—or so I like to think. Once the kitchen is done, I turn my attention to the walk-in closet, hanging our clothes with the precision of a retail associate during peak shopping season.

Finally, I recall that there are still a few boxes lingering in the trunk of my car. Grabbing my keys, I make my way through the apartment corridor and take the hall leading to the gym. From there, it's just a few steps down to the parking area. I opt for this route over the elevator, which I've learned moves at a pace that could only be described as glacial.

The gym door swings open, and I'm immediately struck by a disarming smile that seems to illuminate the room. His eyes follow, intense and magnetic, pulling me into an orbit I didn't request. He's dressed in ADIDAS shorts and a form-fitting workout shirt that's predominantly black—showing off a body that's clearly been worked on.

He exudes an Italianesque, simple sophistication. There's an electric charge in the air. I'm doing everything not to walk into the gym equipment that suddenly seems to be everywhere.

I force myself to move, my feet carrying me past him and toward the staircase. My mind races. 

What are you doing, Olivia? You're engaged. This isn't you; you don't ogle strangers. But even as I make my way down the steps, I know this is going to be a problem—because it's rare that anyone steals my attention like this, and he's just hijacked it completely.