Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MORGAN
I arrive on her street five minutes early and immediately regret it.
The neighborhood is quiet; all the porch lights glow warmly, and a dog barks somewhere behind a fence. The air smells like freshly cut grass and laundry detergent from a house nearby. I don’t belong in this place, and I fear Constance might not belong in my world either.
That should make this easier, but it doesn’t.
She’s already waiting at the curb when I pull up. Not pacing or checking her phone, just standing there in front of a house, like she’s braced for impact, shoulders squared, chin lifted, clutch held tight in her hand.
The emerald gown stops me cold. It fits her in a way that feels intentional, even though I know it probably isn’t.
The fabric skims her curves without clinging, follows lines she usually hides beneath sensible clothes and invisibility.
Streetlights catch the green fabric and throw it back in soft flashes that make my jaw tighten before I can stop it.
Two curled strands of her dark hair frame her face, both softening and sharpening it while the rest, elegantly piled high on her head, exposes her neck.
She looks like she stepped out of another world and landed here by mistake.
I adjust myself before I open the door, irritation flaring sharp and unwelcome at my own reaction. This is not the time or place. This isn’t what tonight is supposed to be about.
I school my expression and step out of the car.
“Good evening, Constance,” I say, steady.
She turns toward me, and I catch the faint scent of her perfume. Something warm but subtle, a scent that stays close instead of announcing itself. Her eyes flick over my face, then away, then back again, like she’s checking herself for a reaction she refuses to show.
“Good evening, Morgan.”
I open the passenger door without comment. She hesitates for half a second, then slides inside.
When the door closes, the interior of the car feels smaller, fuller, and the drive downtown is quiet. City lights slide past the windshield. I keep my eyes on the road, trying not to look at her.
When we finally arrive at the venue, the valet takes the car as laughter and music swell around us. The low murmur of money pretending to be generosity. I place my hand at the small of her back as we move inside, guiding without pressure. She stiffens at first, then settles into the touch.
A retired judge I’ve shared donor tables with before turns as we approach, his smile already in place. His wife follows a beat later, sharp-eyed and impeccably dressed.
“Judge Reynolds,” I say, offering my hand. “You remember me.”
“Of course,” he replies warmly. “Morgan Creed. I was wondering when you’d make an appearance.”
“You know me, Your Honor; never one to miss a party with an open bar.” I step half a pace aside and gesture to the woman at my side. “This is Constance.”
Nothing else, not my assistant or my date, just her name.
There’s a pause, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly masked. His wife’s gaze lingers a fraction longer, taking Constance in from the emerald sweep of her dress to the calm steadiness of her posture.
“Lovely to meet you,” Mrs. Reynolds says, her smile polite.
“Likewise,” Constance replies, voice even, unflustered.
“Where has Creed been hiding you?” Reynolds chuckles.
“Oh, you know, here and there. A man like Morgan can’t ever show his full hand…right?” Constance replies.
The judge barks a laugh. “I like her, Creed. She’s a fun one.”
“Thank you, sir.” I smile.
We move on.
I introduce her to a donor who funds half the city’s private foundations, then to a defense attorney whose opinions quietly shape three judges’ decisions before cases ever reach a courtroom. A tech CEO who owes me a favor and a city councilman who pretends he doesn’t.
Each time, I say the same thing:
“This is Constance.”
The double takes when people realize she isn’t just an arm decoration amuse me.
I catch the flickers of interest when they realize she isn’t explained.
Some smile politely and move on, convinced they’ve already figured her out.
Those are the careless ones. The ones who linger, who speak to her instead of through me, are the ones I remember.
She handles it effortlessly, not performing or overcompensating; she just listens, head tilted slightly as if every conversation matters. When someone makes an offhand remark meant to test her, she responds just enough to reveal intelligence without inviting challenge.
I feel a sharp, unwelcome sense of pride.
At one point, a councilman’s wife leans in and asks, “So, how do you know Morgan?”
Constance doesn’t look at me before she answers. “Through work.”
The truth, neatly contained.
The woman hums, clearly unsatisfied, but she doesn’t press.
Good.
A waiter appears, handing us cocktails. I take a sip and smirk; double-barrel scotch, my favorite.
She takes a small sip of what I’m guessing is champagne, judging by the flute and the bubbles, eyes scanning the room over the rim of her glass, cataloging faces and body language with quiet focus.
When a conversation nearby grows louder, she shifts subtly closer to me, not seeking protection, but it’s like she’s adjusting herself so she can hear what they’re saying.
Dinner is announced not long after, a soft chime and a ripple of movement through the room. We’re guided to a long table near the front, seated with the judge, his wife, and two donors whose names carry weight.
The first course arrives quickly. Constance’s sea bass is plated delicately, all white flesh and citrus, while my duck is rich and dark, crisped just enough. She glances at my plate, then back at her own.
“That smells unfair,” she says quietly.
I tilt my fork toward her. “Try it.”
Her brows lift. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
She hesitates, eyeing the plate. “I don’t think I’ve ever had duck before.”
I wait, then she leans in, taking a careful bite. Her eyes widen despite herself. “Okay. Yeah, that’s rude.”
I huff a laugh. “My turn.”
She doesn’t argue, just cuts a small piece of her fish and holds it out. I lean closer than necessary to take it, catching the faint scent of her perfume again—something light and floral.
The sea bass is rich and clean, flaky beneath the fork, a quieter counterpoint to the duck.
“Yours is better,” she says.
“I know,” I reply.
She rolls her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching, and something loosens in my chest.
Our drinks are replaced, again and again, without ever having to ask. A notion I truly appreciate.
Conversation drifts; Constance listens more than she speaks.
When she does, it’s with a calm certainty that makes people reassess her—smiles tightening, postures shifting, attention sharpening as they realize she’s been following everything all along.
I notice the second glass of champagne disappears, then the third.
Her body loosens, her movements more relaxed, and her laugh becomes lighter.
It’s refreshing to see her unravel. Not sloppy, just warm.
After dessert, an auction begins, the proceeds going to the foundation’s scholarship fund.
Gift baskets, weekend getaways, bottles that make people lean forward in their seats.
I bid on a basket heavy with liquor and winery tickets, mostly because the judge’s wife looks irritated that I’m interested.
She counters once. I counter back higher, just to see her mouth tighten.
She doesn’t try again. I win it without effort.
When it’s brought over, I pluck a bottle of Dalmore 62 Scotch from the basket and hand the rest to Constance. “Consider this a tip.”
She stares at it, then up at me. “You realize this is excessive.”
I shrug. “Consider it hazard pay.”
She laughs, genuinely this time.
“At Last” by Etta James starts to play, and many of the couples in nearby proximity make their way onto the dance floor. The judge takes Constance’s hand and leads her to the floor before I can stop him, but I intervene smoothly, replacing his grip with mine.
“Of course,” he says lightly, relinquishing her.
“Dance with me,” I tell her.
She exhales. “I don’t—”
“You do,” I say, already guiding her closer.
Her body fits against me easily, her hand resting on my shoulder comfortably.
I settle mine at her waist. She’s warm, relaxed; tipsy enough that she forgets to hold herself quite so tightly.
Her head tilts, the movement causing her to shift closer to me than before.
Her gaze finds mine, her eyes glittering with interest that I can’t ignore.
“This is a mistake,” she murmurs.
“Most good things are,” I reply.
By the time the song ends, she’s unsteady—not enough for anyone else to notice, but I do. The pause before she steps back. The way her smile lingers like a question.
I don’t give her time to think it through.
I lean in, my mouth barely brushing her ear, my hand firm at her waist. My voice is a whisper meant only for her. “We’re leaving.”
She exhales softly, her breath brushing my jaw. “You always this abrupt?”
“Only when I’m being considerate.”
Amusement flashes across her face. “Of what?”
“Of how much longer you can pretend you’re unaffected by me…of this attraction between us.”
She huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t pull away as I guide her toward the exit, my hand staying at her back.
At the valet stand, the night air hits us and she shivers, likely from the sudden rush of the cold or perhaps the champagne has finally hit its peak; I don’t bother guessing.
She folds her arms over her chest, eyes on me.
“So,” she says, dragging the word out, “is this where you tell me I passed some kind of test?”
I arch a brow. “You don’t strike me as someone who needs anyone’s approval.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I wasn’t looking for it.”
The car pulls up, and I open the door for her. She slides inside, smoothing her dress, her movements a little slower now that it’s just us.