Chapter 13 #3
It’s an old family portrait, taken when Theo was a kid. On the steps of a brownstone, probably his parents’ place, sit five Prescott children and their smiling parents. They look so perfectly put together, like the kind of polished, picturesque family you’d find in a department store photo frame.
Even though the picture is at least twenty-five years old, I can’t help but stare, trying to piece together a part of Theo’s life I’ve never seen before.
One of the boys, older, with a stiff posture and a serious expression, sits at the edge of the group, feet planted, elbows on his knees, already looking like he’s ready to be done with the whole thing. That has to be Grant, since he’s been described as the eldest who’s even more serious than Theo.
On the opposite end, their younger sister and Holden are a different story entirely, with fingers hooked in their mouths, mid-laugh, making ridiculous faces. They radiate pure, unfiltered chaos.
And then there’s the youngest. A small boy with curly blond hair and dark eyes. There’s something angelic about him, something soft that pulls your attention.
Theo has his arm slung around the kid’s shoulders, and the boy is belly laughing, head tipped back with joy.
And Theo—stoic, emotionally walled-off Theo—is smiling too. Not a polite smile. Not a smirk. A real, uninhibited, full-face grin. The kind that hits you right in the chest.
I can’t stop staring at him.
Where did that version of him go? The one who looked so effortlessly happy?
Theo clears his throat from behind me, causing me to jump like I’ve been caught putting a silver candlestick in my purse. He extends out a crystal glass of water, the ice cubes clinking as I take it from him. Our fingers brush, our eyes flitting up to one another like a chain reaction.
“I like your family picture,” I comment.
He glances behind me at the photo in the golden frame, and I can see the moment the curtains close on any progress we’ve made with each other tonight.
“Thanks,” is all he says.
We both stand awkwardly still, staring at the picture.
He seems uneasy, closed off in a way that feels different from his usual standoffishness.
Like I touched something I wasn’t supposed to when I mentioned the photo.
And maybe I did. Maybe me being here suddenly feels like too much to him.
Now we’re just standing here, quiet, in the middle of his apartment, like neither of us knows what’s supposed to happen next.
“Should I call for my cab?” I ask, nodding toward the door. “I promise I won’t be offended if you shout a resounding hell yes.”
“No,” he says quickly. “But if you need to leave …”
“I don’t,” I cut in.
He pauses, giving me a flicker of a smile. “Okay. Good.”
This is perfectly normal. One boss. One assistant. Just us two kind-of-maybe friends, hanging out in his penthouse after dark. Nothing odd about that whatsoever.
Who the hell am I trying to convince? Something has to be up with him.
Is he dying? Wanting to work on some secret late-night project?
Sexually frustrated and wanting to hook up?
Although he doesn’t seem like the type, especially when he’s reminded me multiple times about the no-fraternization policy.
“Come here, I want to show you something,” he says, gesturing toward the back door.
I follow him to the patio, and with one effortless pull, the glass glides smoothly, a stark contrast to every door I’ve ever wrestled with in my life.
Stepping outside, I find that like the rest of his home, the outdoor space is spacious yet minimal. It’s only a single set of patio furniture, a heater lamp, and a few scattered pots of greenery. But as we move closer to the railing, I understand why this space matters.
The city sprawls beneath us, an expanse of lights blinking like scattered constellations.
Out here, the stars don’t exist. In their place, skyscrapers glow, streetlights hum, and windows flicker with proof of life.
It’s not the same as a night sky, but it carries its own kind of city magic.
A reminder that even in the vastness of it all, we’re never truly alone.
“This is gorgeous,” I whisper, glancing over at him.
He looks at me without saying a word, a look of quiet pride in his expression, like it means something that I see this secret place the way he does.
I shiver, and I’m not sure if it’s from the chill of the air, or this raging spark in my stomach every time he looks my way. His eyes catch my movement instantly, and within seconds, he makes quick work of turning on the patio heater beside us.
The warmth radiates through me, sinking into my skin. Still, it does nothing to steady the rush in my chest.
“Isn’t it crazy,” I mumble, leaning against the railing, “how there are thousands of other lives happening all at once? Right now, at this very moment?”
“I guess I’ve never thought about it like that.” He moves behind me, and before I can process it, he’s slipping his jacket from his shoulders and draping it over mine. His touch is light, but the gesture is so him. Quiet, effortless, and pretending not to be a big deal when it is.
“This is where I come to think,” he says, voice lower now, closer. “Something about it clears the fog from my brain.”
“Tell me one of the last things you thought about out here,” I say, sinking into the warmth of his jacket. It smells like him—clean, fresh, with the faintest hint of cologne and soap. Comforting in a way I don’t want to think too hard about.
He mirrors my stance, leaning on the railing beside me, his elbows brushing the cool metal. “I can’t tell you that.”
I nudge his arm with mine, closing the space between us. “You can tell me anything.”
He shakes his head. “Not this.”
Something about the way he says it, the weight behind those two words, sends my pulse into overdrive. There’s more there. Something not said that I want to lean into, to gently pull apart.
But I don’t. I ease off, giving him space. Because with him, pushing too hard won’t open a door. It will slam it closed.
“Okay,” I say softly, turning slightly toward him. “Tell me something else then. Something about you that not many people know.”
Staring out over the railing, he thinks it over. “I’ve never had an assistant over at my house until today.”
“I’d like to say I’m surprised, but I’m not,” I tease. “I’ve heard about your track record with assistants.”
He smiles and it’s so freaking gorgeous, it should be considered lethal. “You’ve got me there.”
“Why me then?” I ask.
“You’re different, Marley.”
“Different good, or different bad?”
“Different good,” he says without hesitation. “Different in a way that makes it impossible to ignore you.”
The inches that separate us feel smaller now, charged to a higher frequency. I should look away. Say something lighthearted. Break the moment before it swallows me whole.
But I don’t.
I look at him instead.
“That’s dangerous,” I whisper.
His expression softens, like he knows exactly what I mean. “I know.”