Chapter 70: Clara Returned Home and Took a Hot Shower

"Sorry."

"Take the money and keep your mouth shut."

* * *

Clara returned home and took a hot shower.

She towel-dried her damp hair, planning to review a couple of research papers before bed.

Just as she settled at her desk, her phone screen lit up.

A message from Connor: You left your gloves in my car.

Attached was a photo of beige leather gloves—the exact pair she'd worn that day.

Only then did Clara remember. The car's heater had been too warm, so she'd casually removed them. Connor had taken and set them aside, and she'd completely forgotten when exiting.

If it's convenient, I can return them to you sometime?

Clara hesitated before replying: How about sending your address? I'll arrange a courier.

Connor responded swiftly: My building doesn't allow delivery personnel inside.

Alternatively, we could meet for coffee. I'm currently in Ashford University's MBA program—heard you're an alum? If you don't mind showing me around campus...

Had it just been about the gloves, Clara would've politely declined.

But he'd framed it as a request for help.

She bit her lip.

Okay.

Next Friday at 11am work for you?

Clara sent a thumbs-up emoji.

* * *

That Friday, Connor parked in the underground garage.

He walked to the designated café.

Tucked into a back alley near Ashford University's rear gates, the shop's minimalist bohemian aesthetic made it a student favorite. Even on a weekday, the place was bustling.

Connor chose a window seat.

Clara arrived five minutes late.

As she sat, a server brought menus.

Lazy jazz played overhead, the vinyl's faint crackle adding vintage texture.

"Iced Americano," Connor closed his menu.

"Latte for me," Clara said.

From his briefcase, Connor produced a kraft paper bag: "Your gloves."

"Thanks." Their fingers brushed as she took it, making her recoil slightly.

Connor glanced around. The air smelled of roasted beans, the temperature perfectly balanced.

"Come here often?"

"Sometimes." Clara gazed outside.

The river had frozen over, willow branches dusted with last night's snow.

She often walked these banks when feeling low.

Connor followed her sightline: "Lovely view."

His attention returned to her face: "This jazz piece is special—a 90s Miles Davis track. Rarely heard nowadays."

"You're quite knowledgeable."

"Only superficially." His lips quirked.

Clara recalled Mason mentioning Connor's mother was a renowned pianist.

But she didn't pry.

As their cups emptied, Connor stood: "Shall we?"