Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Spreadsheets stacked like battle maps on her screen. Maris Chen’s message blinked: Need this finalized.
“On it,” Bea mumbled to herself, fingers flying.
Maris, junior partner at Monaghan & Stowe and terrifyingly chic even at ten in the morning, swept past Bea’s desk with a file tucked under her arm.
“They just added another matching pledge from King Global Capital,” she announced briskly.
Bea counted it a victory that the name no longer spiked her pulse.
“That’s double our projected inflow for the benefit.
Update the models, and double-check the FX assumptions.
If we get caught flat-footed in front of the dignitaries, I’ll be feeding you to them first.”
Bea gave a salute with her pen. “Noted. I’ll make it a stately death.”
Maris chortled and kept moving, heels clicking toward her office.
One task bled into the next. By the time she leaned back and sipped cold coffee, the office had thinned out. She checked her watch.
She was late. Again.
“Oh no.” Bea scrambled up, gathering her bag. Lillian.
She dashed into the café across from the Institute, hair escaping its clip, sweating. Early December, barely summer, and the heat was already shimmering off the pavement.
Lillian was waiting at a small two-seater table, pristine in a soft blouse and a vintage pencil skirt, her ID badge for the Children’s Integration & Cultural Adjustment Institute clipped neatly at her waist.
“You’re late,” Lillian said, but her tone was more observation than scolding.
“I’m so sorry, Lils. I was wrangling donations. The UR firms are being overly generous. Win for the kids.” Bea flopped into the chair, still slightly out of breath. “How’s your work?”
Lillian’s smile warmed. “I just finished presenting our Financial Programs update to the board.”
Bea perked up. “Of course you did, Ms. Financial Program Analyst.”
Lillian shrugged, but seemed pleased. “Beats data entry.”
“Promotion suits you.” Bea grinned. “So does the pencil skirt. New thrift find?”
“Yeah. Adam came with me on the weekend.”
“Ugh, why does your boyfriend see you more than I do when we live together?” Bea scanned the QR code on their table, pulled up the menu on her phone.
“Because you vanish into the sunset with your prince,” Lillian teased.
“Excuse you. I leave you constant love notes.”
“That’s true.” Lillian thanked the waiter who dropped off her BLT. “At least we have those.”
Work, men, and life had them running in different directions more often than not, so they’d started leaving sticky notes around the apartment. Lillian’s were often food related, since she hadn’t quite forgotten the months when Bea had to be force-fed.
“Meaty Monday xo” stuck to the fridge.
“Housemate dinner tonight! You pick: curry or stir-fry?” taped to the pantry door.
Bea’s notes read more like text messages:
“I heard you come in at 1am. Suspicious. Tell me everything later.”
“Good luck with your presentation today! Go slay xx”
“And Adam?” Bea asked, spearing her salad. “How’s the nicest guy in Northgate?”
“Still nice.” Lillian sighed contentedly. “Although, we’re going for another hike next week.”
Bea grimaced. “You must be excited.”
“I didn’t love the first one,” she agreed. “But…sometimes it matters more what the other person loves. And maybe I’ll like it better the second time.”
Bea’s food arrived. She picked up a fry and pointed it at Lillian. “You’re either very romantic or a trifle delusional.”
Lillian’s phone buzzed and she excused herself for a work call, sliding away toward the counter.
Bea’s phone lit up with her group chat.
CLAIRE BEAR: Marco just tried to fix the sink. His shirt’s wet. I can’t talk.
UMMA: Are you studying for your accreditation course or just watching this boy like a drama?
CLAIRE BEAR: Oooops
CLAIRE BEAR: wrong chat. Hi Imo!
CLAIRE BEAR: I’m studying.
CLAIRE BEAR: The muscle groups in his back.
BEYA SLAYA: Who wouldn’t?
BEYA SLAYA: Hi Umma!
UMMA: Speaking of boys…how’s Rafael?
BEYA SLAYA: I’ll call soon with an update, Umma. A bit busy the next couple of nights.
UMMA: Okay. When you have time.
Bea slid her phone away just as Lillian returned with napkins.
“You coming with Adam to the benefit tomorrow night?”
“That’s the plan. Are you coming with Rafael?”
“Yes. He’s picking me up.”
Technically she was meant to be working along with the rest of her team at M&S. But Maris had given a ‘special’ assignment: keep the speaker—and the principal sponsor of the event—happy.
The sponsor of the evening: Griffin Ventures.
The speaker: Rafael Griffin.
“How do you feel about that?”
Bea winced. “A little terrified. It’s our first society thing as a couple. The last time we were at something similar, it was Isabel’s gala and…yeah. Disaster.”
A small smile tugged at Lillian’s mouth. “Because you put Jaxon in the middle?”
“I hear the ‘I told you so’ in your tone, Lillian Clarke,” Bea grunted, cutting into her steak.
Just after five that afternoon, Bea pulled her phone from her pocket.
LITTLE BEA: Taking the elevator down now. Escaping the spreadsheets before they devour me
RAFAEL: Where are you going?
LITTLE BEA: Home. To collapse face first into bed.
RAFAEL: Come to my home. To my bed.
LITTLE BEA: Ha. I know from experience that won’t be relaxing
RAFAEL: Sounds like you need more experience
LITTLE BEA: I need time to recover, remember?
RAFAEL: You’ve had two days already.
RAFAEL: I’ll run you a bath. After. Bring yourself to me in an hour.
LITTLE BEA: An hour? I just finished work.
RAFAEL: Then call it overtime.
Mid-morning sunlight spilled across the bedroom, gilding Rafael’s house in wholesomeness that felt altogether unearned after the night she’d had.
Every muscle was stiff, her body a map of tingles. She hadn’t even known she could be sore there. Or there. Or that Rafael had so many ways of wringing sounds out of her she hadn’t known she was capable of making.
She buried her face into the pillow, grinning, mortified, remembering—his hands bruising her hips, his mouth dragging across her skin, the unrelenting drive that had left her begging. The word still made her wince inside. She lay there for a minute, half dazed and absurdly happy.
The bath had been both mercy and madness. Warm water, rose oil, his hands on her thighs under the bubbles. At first gentle, then not gentle at all. There was no way she could sit through a bath again without blushing.
The space next to her was cold. He had been gone for a while.
The thought came uninvited—is this what marriage would be like?
Waking to his absence, knowing he’d already started the day.
She let the question linger a moment longer than she meant to, then folded it away before it could mean too much.
Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it from the nightstand.
7:54 a.m.
And a text from Rafael, sent over an hour ago:
RAFAEL: Going for a run. I’ll be back with coffee and breakfast. Don’t put your clothes on.
Bea snorted, typing back:
LITTLE BEA: You wish
She sat up carefully, testing her limbs like they belonged to someone else, wincing as muscles pinched. She dragged herself into his bathroom for the fastest shower of her life. No way she was taking the chance of him coming back when she was wet and naked again.
A few minutes later, the front door opened and shut. Footsteps sounded on the staircase. Then Rafael appeared in the doorway, sweat-damp from his run, shirt clinging indecently.
Bea was applying the last of the moisturizer she’d found in his drawers. She caught his reflection in the mirror, face heating instantly.
He smirked. “Feeling okay?”
Bea bit her lip without thinking. “Umm, I think so.”
His eyes darkened. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Bite your lip if you don’t want a repeat of last night before your coffee.”
Bea whipped around, scandalized. “I don’t think it’s humanly possible to do it that often in such a short time.”
Rafael tilted his head. “This man has been waiting three years, Bea. If you’re not hungry, I’m happy to show you what’s possible.”
She pressed a smile down, and scrambled past him, avoiding eye contact. “See you downstairs!”
By the time he’d showered and joined her, Bea had already poured the coffee and laid the croissants out on the table.
Rafael caught her wrist as he sat, tugging her straight into his lap. “Here’s how I want you to say good morning.” His mouth slanted over hers, deep and deliberate, pulling back only when she was halfway befuddled. “Got it?”
She nodded, dazed. Her pulse hadn’t caught up yet.
He brushed his thumb across her throat, satisfaction flickering. “Now eat.” He handed her a chocolate-dipped croissant.
Bea sank her teeth into it, still tasting him more than the pastry. “Tonight’s going to be our first really public thing.”
Twice now she’d been intimate with him, and not once had her past intruded. Rafael gave her too much to feel, too much to hold, for thoughts of anyone else. But in society, among their peers, the reminders would be foisted on them.
Rafael sipped his coffee. “First public thing. Last time anyone wonders.”
Her breath came easier, calm nestling in her abdomen. His words steadied her. Always so sure. Always claiming.
“Are you typically up with the sun?” She lifted her mug to her lips.
“Sometimes earlier,” he answered, eating half a savory croissant in a single bite.
“You don’t need the sleep?”
He shook his head. “Arguably my body needs movement more than rest. It’s when I train.”
“Train as in gym, or train as in…whatever gave you these?” She lifted his hand, fingers running along the network of healed scars across his knuckles.
“Gym’s functional. A little boring. The good stuff is martial arts and sport. Most of these”—he turned his hand, flexed his fingers—“just come from years on the mat.”
“What about this one?” She traced a longer pale line on his middle knuckle.
“That one’s from a fight with a friend.”
“Still your friend?”