Chapter Thirty-One
Bella
New York City
Drew texted me at nine thirty in the morning.
Drew: Wear a dress tonight.
No hello. No explanation. Just a command delivered digitally. I stared at the screen for a full five seconds, waiting for the follow-up, the context, or the punchline.
It never came.
I typed back: Are you serious?
His response was instantaneous: Yes. I’ll be at your door at seven.
That was it. No hint of where we might be going. My thumb hovered over the screen for three full seconds before I typed: Formal? Informal?
Three dots. Then: Casual. Something that makes me want to take it off you later.
I stared at the words until they blurred. My sex warmed. I could have reminded him of the rules, but I didn’t want to.
It was becoming more and more difficult to know what I wanted.
I didn’t like surprises. I maintained a billion-dollar life on the art of preventing them. But Drew seemed entirely uninterested in the systems I’d built; he was interested in me. Which was irritating, confusing, and, if I were being honest, terrifyingly dangerous.
At six thirty, I stood in front of my closet as if it were a tactical map. A dress meant intention. It meant a date. It meant expectations, and I didn’t do expectations. Especially not with a man who had kissed me in a law office as if he were trying to rearrange my soul.
I chose something simple: black, knee-length, fitted. Classic in a way that would make it appropriate for most venues. When I stepped into my heels, I felt a rush of anticipation.
I could have said no.
I should have said no.
We had rules for a reason.
But he’d said we would be more believable if we were spontaneous. So, maybe, that’s what this was.
At seven on the dot, the buzzer sounded.
I opened the door to find Drew leaning against the hallway wall.
He looked effortless in a dark, tailored coat.
His gaze swept over me. It wasn’t the fast, hungry look I was used to from men in my circle.
This was slower. It was appreciation, lingering on the details.
“You listened,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“I was curious,” I countered. “Don’t mistake it for obedience.”
His mouth curved. “Never, Bella.”
The car waiting outside was sleek, discreet, and black. Drew opened the door for me and slid in beside me, his knee brushing mine as we settled in. My pulse stumbled over itself.
“Drew,” I said, keeping my voice in a professional low gear. “Is this for the pretense?”
He watched me for a long beat, his eyes dark and unreadable. “No.”
My heart did a strange, gravity-defying flip. I turned to the window, watching the city lights blur. “Then what is it for?”
“For you,” he said simply.
The car stopped in front of a modest building with a simple sign: Dance Studio.
I narrowed my eyes. “What are we doing here?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t need surprises.”
“Yes, you do,” he muttered, his mouth twitching as he opened my door.
Inside the studio reception area, a large mirror reflected us back, showing a man and a woman who looked exactly like a couple. It was a dangerous image.
“Is this private?” I whispered.
“I booked the class,” he said, his confidence unwavering.
Then, music floated from the doorway. It wasn’t romantic.
It was . . . cheerful. We stepped into the room and stopped dead.
There were a dozen couples, but none of them were our age.
Silver hair, sparkly sneakers, and suspenders filled the room.
One couple was holding hands with a comfortable familiarity that only comes from half a century of shared mornings.
I turned slowly to Drew. He looked like a man who’d just realized his “private class” was far from that.
“Drew,” I whispered with growing humor. “The senior class?”
An apologetic smile twisted his lips. “I didn’t realize the ‘Silver’ package was for the over-seventy-five demographic or that we wouldn’t be alone.”
I laughed—loud and entirely un-Holliston-like. The sound bounced off the mirrors and startled one of the silver-haired couples into turning around. Drew’s eyebrows shot up.
“You laugh like that,” he said quietly, “and I forget why we live in different cities.”
Before I had time to digest that, a woman with white hair and a vibrant scarf beamed at us. “Well, look at you two! Aren’t you a cute couple?”
Before I could correct her, Drew slid his hand to the small of my back. “Thank you,” he said smoothly.
“Come on, honey,” the woman clapped. “We’re learning the foxtrot.”
Drew waited as if offering me an out. When I didn’t say anything, he nodded toward the door. “If you want to go, we go.”
His breath warmed my ear, and my pulse stuttered. Dancing would put me back in his arms and that wasn’t a good idea. I should have suggested we go to dinner instead. Instead, I nodded. “Let’s dance.”
The instructor called out cheerfully: “Slow-slow-quick-quick…”
Mostly because I was nervous, it was a disaster. I stepped on Drew’s shoe within ten seconds. “Sorry,” I snapped, mortified.
“I’ll survive,” he said, then immediately stepped on mine.
I looked up. “I’m not used to being led.”
“That,” he murmured, his hand tightening at my waist, “is your first problem. Stop thinking, Bella. Just feel.”
Heat crawled up my spine and I let myself trust him. For the first time, we moved without tripping. My body fell into rhythm with his, his quiet strength leading without forcing. I felt the heat of his palm through my dress, the certainty of his movements, and suddenly, I was laughing again.
“What?” he murmured, his eyes darkening as they held mine.
“This is . . . actually fun.”
“It is. With you, it is.”
When the class ended and the seniors applauded us like we’d won a Tony, the woman in the scarf patted my arm. “Don’t lose him, dear. He’s a keeper.”
Drew didn’t look at me, but he squeezed my hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
We left the studio and the air felt lighter, the city less imposing. Drew guided me back to our car and we headed downtown.
“Where now?” I asked.
“Somewhere real.”
The jazz club was a basement with a black door and no sign. Inside, it was all bourbon, heartbeat-heavy drumbeats, and the electric hum of a saxophone that sounded like a beautiful heartbreak. We found a corner booth, knees brushing under the table. I ordered bourbon.
“You drink bourbon?” Drew asked, impressed.
“Sometimes.” Normally martinis, but I’m taking a break from those.
He toasted me. “To ceasefires.”
“To sanity,” I added.
As the music swelled, we didn’t talk about the feud or our fathers. We talked about travel, about how we both hated tourist traps and preferred the warmth of meeting locals.
“We have more in common than you want to admit,” Drew said, leaning forward on his elbows.
“We both work too much,” I pointed out.
“Yes.”
“We both like control.”
Drew’s eyes glinted. “I don’t see myself as controlling. I just like getting results.”
“Same.”
He laughed, the sound low and resonant. “Let’s play a game. Tell me something nobody would guess about you.”
I hesitated, my brain reaching for a safe “root beer candy” answer. But Drew was watching me with a sincerity that demanded more.
“I get lonely,” I said softly.
The expression on his face shifted, not to pity, but to deep understanding. “I guessed that,” he said. “Because you’re always the one holding everything. People forget to hold you.”
I dug deeper. “I don’t like horses. I want to love them since I grew up with them, but they’re unpredictable and time consuming.
The barn smells. I did too, every time I spent time with them.
They’ve always been an integral part of the estate in Firebrook Valley, but I don’t understand why.
I don’t even think my father likes them.
Brady does, though, and they’re well cared for, so I don’t say anything. ”
He nodded. “I understand that. I’m surprised my father didn’t get rid of our horses after my mother died, but Nora—”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned horses.”
“No. It’s okay. It wasn’t the horse’s fault that my mother rode alone and often. Accidents happen.”
I had to look away. “Your turn.”
“I like cats,” he said without hesitation. “I’ve never had one, but I respect their independent natures. They literally don’t give a fuck, and if I were ever to have a pet, that’s the one I’d want. That way, if it ever does love me, I earned it.”
Those last words moved something in me. “You don’t have to earn love, Drew.”
“Don’t you?” He gave me a long look. I wanted to correct him, but I thought about my parents and how little my father had done to keep my mother happy. Maybe earn was the wrong word, but love did require tending, nurturing, and loyalty. Deserve? That word felt wrong as well.
I thought about what my mother said about sometimes falling making a person stronger. I was careful to never make mistakes—so careful. To earn the love of those around me? Deserve it?
“You okay?” he asked.
I cocked my head to the side. “I like you, Drew.”
He laughed. “Is that something else I’m not supposed to have been able to guess?”
I blushed.
He hugged me.
And in that moment we were somewhere between fake, real, lovers, and friends. It should have been horribly confusing, but somehow it felt right.
As we drove to my place, the city was a blur of quiet lights. He walked me to my door, and we stood there simply gazing at each other.
His attention dropped to my mouth. We leaned in at the same time, caught in a pull, a want, a shared gravity. I could feel the heat radiating from him, his hand lifting toward my waist.
And then, he stopped.
Inches from my mouth, he exhaled. It was slow and shaky, like he was fighting every instinct he had. Then he pulled me into his arms instead. Protective. Warm. His heartbeat thudded against my cheek, fast and unsteady, telling me exactly how much restraint that choice had cost him.
My body hummed with sudden, aching frustration. I wanted his mouth. I wanted his hands sliding under my dress right here in the hallway. I wanted him to stop being so damn good and just take.
He brushed his lips across my temple, so gently, so tenderly, my knees nearly buckled. “Goodnight, Bella.”
His voice was rougher than usual.
“Goodnight,” I managed.
He didn’t push. He didn’t ask to come in. But just before he turned away, he said, “Hey, Bella.”
“Yes?”
“I like you too.”
I dove inside my apartment, leaned against the door after closing it and smiled—a huge, stupid, can’t-help-it smile.
“This isn’t real,” I reminded the empty room.
My fingertips brushed my temple where I could still feel the heat of his breath.
But it sure felt real.