Chapter 13
I woke to the pale, quiet light of early morning filtering through my bedroom window.
I blinked, disoriented. The last thing I remembered was the heavy, solid weight of Henry against me on the couch, the smell of sex and sweat and his ruined cologne clinging to the air.
I remembered closing my eyes, wrapped in that impossible warmth, hearing his rough whisper against my skin: “Sleep. I’m not going anywhere. ”
But I was in my bed. Alone.
A flicker of panic, cold and familiar, sparked in my chest. Had I dreamed it? Had he left after I’d fallen asleep? The emptiness of the bed felt like a verdict.
Then I moved, and my body announced itself with a chorus of pleasant aches. The stretch in my thighs, the tender throb between my legs, the faint sting on my collarbone. I lifted a hand to touch the spot, my fingers finding a raised, tender mark. A bruise in the shape of his mouth.
It was real. All of it.
The smell of coffee hit me then—rich, dark, and utterly out of place in my apartment, where my coffee maker was a neglected relic I used twice a season.
I pushed myself up on my elbows. The bedroom door was ajar. From the kitchen came the soft, domestic sounds of life: the clink of a mug, the scrape of a chair, the low hum of the refrigerator.
I swung my legs out of bed and froze. I was wearing a t-shirt. Soft, expensive cotton, far too large, the sleeves falling past my elbows. It smelled like cedar and clean linen. Henry’s shirt.
A warm, dizzying wave of feeling washed over me. He’d put me to bed. He’d given me his own shirt to sleep in.
Pulling the fabric to my nose, I breathed in his scent, a stupid, helpless smile tugging at my mouth before I could stop it.
I padded barefoot out of the bedroom, the cool hardwood floor a shock. I stopped in the doorway to the living area.
The scene was surreal. Morning light spilled across the wreckage of last night—the empty beer bottles still littering the coffee table, my torn shirt lying discarded on the floor like a casualty of war.
And in the middle of it, sitting at my rickety kitchen table as if it were a boardroom conference suite, was Henry Emerson.
He was on his phone, scrolling with one thumb, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. He was dressed in his trousers from last night and a plain white undershirt, his feet bare. His hair was tousled, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked... rumpled. Human. Devastatingly handsome.
He looked up as I entered. His steel-gray eyes tracked me across the room, but the usual calculating assessment was gone. In its place was something quieter, more observant.
“You’re awake,” he said, his voice a low, morning-rough baritone. He set his phone face-down on the table. “How do you feel?”
“Confused,” I admitted, my voice still sleep-soft. I leaned against the doorframe, suddenly shy. “I thought I fell asleep on the couch.”
“You did.” His mouth curved, not quite a smile, but something close. “You were dead weight. And snoring.”
“I do not snore.”
“A delicate, ladylike snuffle, then,” he amended, the teasing note in his voice so unfamiliar it made my chest tighten. “Coffee?”
“Yes. Please.”
He stood and moved to the counter with that same unnerving economy of motion, but it was softer now, less like a predator and more like a man in his own kitchen. He poured coffee into a second mug—my chipped mug Shay had given me as a joke—and handed it to me.
Our fingers brushed. A simple, electric contact. His thumb swept over my knuckle, a fleeting, deliberate caress, before he let go.
“Cream? Sugar?” he asked, as if he hadn’t just short-circuited my nervous system.
“Black’s fine.”
I took a sip, the heat searing and comforting.
I watched as he returned to the table, but instead of sitting, he began to quietly tidy.
He gathered the empty bottles, carrying them to the recycling bin.
He picked up my torn shirt, folded it neatly despite the ruin, and set it on the arm of the couch.
It was the most surreal thing I’d ever witnessed. Henry Emerson, billionaire, cleaning my apartment.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, my throat tight.
He didn’t look at me. “I made the mess. I’ll deal with it.”
It wasn’t an apology. It was a statement of fact. And it meant more.
I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and finally asked the question burning in my throat. “Why did you stay?”
He stilled, a bottle in his hand. He set it down and turned, leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He regarded me for a long moment, his expression unreadable but not closed.
“I told you I wasn’t going anywhere,” he said simply.
“You could have left. After I fell asleep. You could have gone back to your... your penthouse. Your real life.”
“This,” he said, his gaze sweeping the small, sunlit kitchen, the messy living room, me standing there in his too-big shirt, “felt more real.”
The words landed softly, a quiet detonation in my heart. I didn’t know what to say. I took another sip of coffee to hide the tremor in my hands.
He pushed off the counter and walked over to me. He stopped close, but not crowding. He reached out, his fingers gentle as they brushed the hair from my forehead.
“You were dreaming,” he murmured, his touch lingering. “Talking in your sleep. Something about glitter and a prank.”
I huffed a laugh, my eyes stinging. “That sounds about right.”
His hand slid down to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking over my cheekbone. “I didn’t want you to wake up alone. Not after last night.”
The tenderness in his touch, in his words, was my undoing. I leaned into his hand, closing my eyes for a second. When I opened them, he was watching me with an expression I’d never seen before: open, unguarded, almost soft.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, his voice dropping to that intimate register that vibrated straight through me.
“Starving.”
He nodded. “Sit. I’ll make eggs.”
“You cook?”
“I survive,” he said, a wry twist to his mouth. “Sit, Charlie.”
I obeyed, sinking into a chair at the table. I watched, mesmerized, as he moved around my small kitchen with a surprising competence. He found a pan, cracked eggs into a bowl with one-handed ease, located a spatula I forgot I owned.
The domesticity of it was staggering. The most powerful man I’d ever known was making me breakfast in my shitty apartment, barefoot, wearing yesterday’s clothes.
“The model,” I heard myself say, the words out before I could stop them. I hadn’t meant to bring it up, not now, in this soft morning light. But it was there, the last thorn in my side.
He didn’t pause his stirring. “Kira,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “We dated briefly. A lifetime ago. It was a charity event for her new line. A photo op. A business arrangement.” He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze steady. “It meant nothing. You have to know that.”
“I believe you,” I whispered, and I found that I did.
He turned off the stove and divided the scrambled eggs onto two plates. He brought them to the table, setting one in front of me before taking the seat beside me, not across from me. Close.
We ate in a comfortable, quiet silence. The eggs were perfectly cooked, seasoned simply with salt and pepper. It was the best meal I could remember having.
When we were finished, he took our plates to the sink and rinsed them. I joined him, leaning against the counter, our shoulders brushing.
“I have to go soon,” he said, his voice low. “Meetings.”
“I know.”
He turned to face me, his hands coming to rest on my hips, pulling me gently closer. “Come to my place tonight. A proper dinner. No interruptions. No... drama.” The last word was said with a faint, self-aware smile.
My heart flipped. “Is that a request or a command?”
His smile deepened, a real one this time, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “An invitation. One you are free to decline.”
“I’ll be there.”
He leaned in and kissed me, slow and deep and sweet, a world away from the desperate claiming of the night before. This was a promise. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine.
“Good,” he murmured. He pressed one last, soft kiss to the mark on my collarbone. “I like seeing my mark on you.”
Then he was gathering his things, slipping on his dress shoes, buttoning his wrinkled shirt. He looked every bit the billionaire again, but I could still see the man who had made me eggs.
At the door, he paused. He looked back at me, standing there in the middle of my sunlit apartment, wearing his shirt.
“Until tonight, Charlie,” he said, and then he was gone.
The apartment was quiet again, but the silence was different now. It wasn’t empty. It was full of the echo of his voice, the smell of coffee and eggs, the memory of his touch.
I walked to the window and watched as a sleek black car pulled away from the curb. I touched the mark on my collarbone, then brought my fingers to my lips, smiling.
For the first time since Henry Emerson had walked into my life, I felt not like a possession, but like someone who was chosen. And for the first time, I felt truly, completely anchored.