Chapter 13 #2
I have no idea what that even means, but it feels like territory I shouldn’t push. I’m not sure he even knows what he’s talking about. If I hadn’t seen him down four beers, I’d barely catch the slight slur softening the edges of his words.
“Hm.” I pause, racking my brain for anything to pull out of him. “At least tell me this, what’s your favorite dinner? The one you dream about eating once you get home from a long day at work?”
He exhales through his nose, like he already knows where this is going. “You’re going to hate this even more.”
“What? Don’t tell me it’s something painfully boring like chicken and rice.”
“It’s chicken, rice, and veggies,” he confirms without shame. “I get meal preps delivered. Too convenient not to.”
I groan far too dramatically. “Of course you do. You’re literally a walking meal-prep subscription. This is tragic.”
Ignoring the navigation’s sharp protest, I make a sharp left instead of a right, continuing down the road until I spot the neon glow of a hole-in-the-wall, fifties-style drive-up. Pulling into an empty stall, I roll down the window and press the faded red button attached to the wall.
A voice crackles through the speaker, a teenager who sounds like they’re in a committed relationship with exhaustion, asking what I’d like to order. I rattle off two butterscotch milkshakes, while Theo stares at me like I’ve pulled into a strip club instead of a fast-food joint.
“What are you doing, Marley?” he asks, suspicion creeping into his tone.
I shoot him a look. “You can’t tell me you eat chicken and rice every night and not expect me to intervene in your time of drunken need. Chicken and rice won’t help you stave off a hangover. Junk food though? Rumor is, it’s magic.”
Minutes later, a young adult wobbles over on beat-up skates, handing us our order through the open window. I pass Theo one of the fresh white styrofoam cups, the bright blue and pink ice cube logo practically glowing under the fluorescent lights.
He stares at the cup like he’s never held a milkshake before.
I lean over the center console and tap my cup to his. “To living a little.”
“I can undoubtedly say this is the first time I’ve been peer-pressured into dairy.”
I place my hand over his, nudging the cup toward his mouth like he’s suddenly forgotten how straws work. “It’s worth it. Trust me.”
My hand on his feels intimate in comparison to whatever closed off boss-employee dynamic we’ve had until recently.
With anyone else, this wouldn’t feel so loaded.
I’m a physical person. I hug like it’s my last day on earth, link arms without thinking, and rest my head on a friend’s shoulder without a second thought.
But with him? Everything feels different. The flip of my stomach betrays me, making this way more than it needs to be.
We take a sip at the same time, like we’re jumping off a cliff in unison.
When the taste hits him, his eyes widen, and I know it’s a success. The best milkshake in town has to taste like a pure dose of heaven when you’ve gone around eating chicken and rice for who knows how long.
“Oh god,” I moan around a mouth full of milkshake. “So amazing, right?”
He nods, taking another long sip. “It’s good. Really fucking good.”
I bust out laughing at hearing him cuss. He’s normally so polished, watching every word out of his mouth. Which is why I’m loving this less restrained version of himself.
He smiles back, amused, but not entirely sure what I’m laughing at. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just you always come off so composed. Hearing you say fuck kind of rocked my world a little.”
His eyes seem to gleam with amusement. “Well, make that fact number two of something you don’t know about me then. I love a well-placed cuss word.”
“What’s your favorite one? Your go-to?”
“Obviously it’s fuck. It’s versatile. Stub your toe? Frustrated? Referring to sex? It covers all the bases.”
I choke on a laugh, barely keeping the milkshake from coming out my nose. Never in my life did I expect Theo to casually bring up sex in front of me. I’ve never been more proud or more desperate to hide the fact that it turned me on a little.
He clears his throat, probably worrying he’s said too much. “Anyway. Language. Useful stuff.”
“Very useful,” I echo, grinning over my straw at him.
For a second, we just sit there, staring.
The air feels heavier now, humming with something neither of us will name.
I’m not imagining it, this quiet shift between us, like tectonic plates locking into place, slow and inevitable and impossible to undo.
The way his eyes linger a second too long.
We’re both thinking it. But wanting something doesn’t always mean you get to have it.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to a swanky apartment complex.
It’s so fancy, in fact, that there’s a valet waiting outside the premises, looking exactly like you’d imagine they would.
Like cartoon caricatures with their burgundy vests and charcoal gray overcoats with velvet collars, opening doors with a tip of their hat.
I follow Theo into the main lobby of his building. We stop halfway to the elevators, an awkward pivotal moment between us. He’s adorable. In a drunken, goofy way, his eyes glassy and a little lost beneath the fluorescents.
He opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, then closes it again. After a beat, he settles on, “Thank you for tonight.”
“Seriously, it was no big deal.”
He hesitates, keys jingling around his index finger before he clenches them into a fist. “Would you want to …” he trails off, stopping himself.
“Yes,” I blurt out.
I don’t know how he was going to finish that sentence, but every part of me is already yelling yes.
Yes, I will go get him French fries, even if we literally just ate.
Yes, I will untangle his archaic earbuds for the hundredth time.
Yes, to whatever on earth Theo Prescott could possibly need from me right now.
Because I know it’s rare. This moment with him.
People like Theo don’t hand out pieces of themselves for no reason.
They guard their lives with clenched fists.
But when they do trust you, when they finally open up, even a smidge, and let you glimpse something real, something vulnerable, it’s not by accident.
It’s deliberate. And it means something.
His mouth quirks up. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I know we don’t know each other that well, but you should know I’m always down for anything.”
“I can see that,” he murmurs. Something flickers across his face, darkening his eyes. Unreadable. Primal. It rolls off him in waves, and my stomach flips like it’s been struck by lightning.
I try not to sound breathless. “So, ask me.”
He studies me for a second longer, then finally nods toward the elevator. “Want to come up?”
I start toward the elevator, him falling into step beside me. “Just so you know, you’re making all my dreams come true right now.”
He blinks, at a loss for words. “I … what?”
“I’m nosey.” I shrug. “And now I get to see what your apartment looks like.”
“Oh,” he says, swiping a card against the keypad on the elevator wall. “Well, don’t expect anything too spectacular.”
The doors slide open, and we step into a small landing with a single door ahead.
“It’s not about that. I want to know if you’re secretly messy. Or if you have, I don’t know … one of those freaky-ass giant deer heads mounted on your wall.”
His lips twitch. “Once again, don’t expect much. It’s not very homey.”
As it turns out, Theo severely underestimated how easily impressed I am. Because when he unlocks his front door, it delivers us into an apartment that takes up nearly an entire floor of the building.
It’s expansive, wide open, the kind of space where you could ride a bike straight through without hitting a single piece of furniture.
The walls are as dark as his personality, the floors a sleek, light marble.
Golden pendant lights cast a warm glow over everything, but he’s right, nothing about the place actually feels lived in.
It’s so spotless, so perfectly arranged, it looks more like a high-end showroom than a home.
And, for the record, no terrifying deer heads above the fireplace.
I turn to Theo with wide eyes. “Are you serious right now? This is your home?”
“This is it,” he confirms. He’s not fazed by the gorgeous space like I am. The man is acting like he’s standing inside of a Target instead of a multimillion-dollar luxury home.
I wave my arms out dramatically. “This place looks like you should be saying, ‘Hi, my name is Theo Prescott, and welcome to my crib.’”
“I want to act cool and pretend I know what that means, but I really don’t.”
“It’s a show. About celebrities showing off their fancy houses. You should watch it sometime. Quality entertainment.”
Obviously feeling awkward and unsure of what to say, he clears his throat. “I’m going to grab a water. Can I get you anything?”
Thirty seconds in, and I begin to worry I’m already annoying him. From the conflicted look on his face, and the worried hand running through his hair, I’m beginning to think he’s already regretting allowing me to step foot into his personal space. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.
“Water would be great,” I reply. “Then I should probably call down for a cab.”
As he heads for the kitchen, I wander further in, searching for anything that feels remotely like him and not handpicked by an interior designer.
There’s a sleek bookshelf full of titles on leadership and leather-bound classics. A modern couch that looks as stiff as it is untouched. An end table with a single metal sculpture, twisting in on itself like an abstract puzzle.
And then I spot it.
My eyes catch on the one thing that feels out of place in all this curated perfection.
A large-framed photo tucked on a side table.