Chapter 13
The reception dragged past eleven, each conversation blending into the next as he tracked her movements across the terrace.
Business leaders from all over the Northeast discussed market projections and vacation properties, while she made even the notoriously difficult wife of the Massachusetts senator laugh within minutes of meeting her.
When the last guest finally departed, they climbed the stairs to their room in exhausted silence. An ache had settled at the base of his skull during the final hour, and his throat felt raw despite barely speaking above the ambient noise.
“Your turn for the bed,” she said, already pulling pillows from the massive king-sized mattress. “I’m taking the sofa tonight.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than intended.
She paused, arms full of bedding. “We agreed to alternate.”
“I never agreed to that.” He moved toward his suitcase, avoiding her gaze. “I’ll take the sofa again.”
Her exasperation was palpable. “Your stubbornness is going to have serious consequences for your spine.”
But he’d already made the decision. The way she’d said it, like she owed him a debt for his discomfort, didn’t sit right. Some outdated sense of chivalry, perhaps. Or respect for how much she’d need to juggle Monday morning while he’d cleared his schedule for the Beauchamp contract.
She disappeared into the bathroom, and he arranged himself on the inadequate sofa, trying to find a position that wouldn’t leave him crippled by morning.
Sleep eluded him. The combination of Bach still humming through his veins and the furniture’s dimensions guaranteed that.
His limbs ached from the unnatural angles, but another discomfort lurked beneath the physical strain: a heaviness in his muscles that felt different from mere exhaustion.
He dismissed it. A night of poor sleep. The sudden swim in cold Atlantic water. The strain of maintaining their charade.
Hours passed. The ache at the base of his skull intensified, and chills began running through him despite the room’s warmth.
His body was betraying him after years of disciplined control over every aspect of his existence.
The irony cut deep: the man who prided himself on never showing weakness was falling apart in front of the one person whose opinion had begun to matter more than it should.
He glanced toward the bed where she slept, her hair spread across the pillows, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.
The sight created a longing so sharp it cut through even the fever’s haze.
Not just physical desire, though that was undeniably present, but a deeper need he didn’t know how to name.
The urge to slide under those covers beside her, to feel the heat of her body against the strange coldness that had seeped into his bones.
By the gray pre-dawn, his condition had worsened.
He stood, swaying as dizziness swept over him.
The bathroom mirror confirmed his suspicions: dark circles underscored his eyes, and an unusual pallor had settled beneath his tan.
He splashed cold water on his face and swallowed two aspirin from his travel kit, knowing they wouldn’t be enough but clinging to the illusion of control they provided.
Control. The word mocked him as another chill rattled through his frame.
When she stirred hours later, he had showered, dressed, and forced himself into a passable imitation of normal. The aspirin had dulled the headache to a manageable throb, though his limbs felt oddly heavy.
“Morning,” she said, stretching beneath the covers. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “You look terrible.”
“Your morning compliments never fail to charm.”
She sat up, concern replacing sleepiness. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He turned toward his suitcase to avoid her scrutiny. “I’m eager to get out of here and back to real life.”
The words felt like a betrayal even as he spoke them. This weekend, this version of himself he’d discovered in her presence, felt more real than anything he’d experienced in years.
“Right.” Her tone suggested she didn’t believe him. “Back to reality.”
She slipped into the bathroom without waiting for a reply, leaving him with the unsettling sense that his facade hadn’t fooled her at all.
Brunch was an elaborate affair spread across the Beauchamps’ solarium. He pushed food around his plate while Eleanor shared stories about her father’s art collection and Andrew outlined the final steps for their merger.
“Wednesday works,” he said, when Andrew mentioned the paperwork timeline, forcing himself to take a sip of coffee that tasted metallic on his tongue.
By the time they prepared to leave, his headache had returned
The helicopter waited, rotors already spinning. He reached for her hand to guide her toward it, the gesture instinctive rather than rehearsed. Her fingers curled into his like they’d done it a thousand times.
Once inside, the doors sealed, and the world became a thrum of sound.
He slipped on the headset, adjusting the mic as the rotors roared overhead.
Across from him, she did the same. He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes as they lifted off.
The motion sent his stomach lurching in protest.
“Ronan?” Her voice came through the headset, concern clear even through the tinny audio. “You’re shivering.”
He opened his eyes to find her watching him, her face creased with worry. “It’s cold,” he said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. Despite the mild September day, he felt frozen from the inside out.
“It’s seventy-five degrees,” she said, reaching across to press her palm against his forehead. The gesture was so surprising, so intimate, that he didn’t think to pull away. Her hand was cool against his burning skin, and for a moment the relief was so profound he nearly groaned aloud.
“You’re burning up,” she said, her voice sharp with alarm.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“You are not fine. You’re sick.”
“I don’t get sick.”
She rolled her eyes, somehow both exasperated and fond. “Congratulations on being human after all. When was the last time you took anything for that fever?”
He checked his watch, startled to realize how much time had passed. “Aspirin at six. Wore off.”
She dug through her purse, producing a small travel container. “Tylenol. Take two.”
He swallowed the pills with water from the bottle she offered, then leaned back again, surrendering to the exhaustion that threatened to pull him under.
“It’s the swim,” she said through the headset. “Cold water, stress, not enough sleep on that ridiculous sofa. Your immune system didn’t stand a chance.”
“Worth it,” he said, the words slipping out without conscious thought.
“What was?” she asked.
He opened his eyes to find her watching him with a mixture of concern and uncertainty. The fever had lowered his defenses, made him reckless with truths he normally kept locked away.
“Jumping in after you,” he said, too drained to filter his thoughts. “Would do it again.”
Something flashed across her face, wonder and warmth that made his chest tighten.
“Who knew you had a knight in shining armor hiding under all those tailored suits,” she said, the teasing note failing to mask the genuine emotion threading through her voice.
The rest of the flight passed in a haze. They landed at the Manhattan heliport. He managed to get out, but when he reached for his weekend bag, she intercepted him, slinging both bags over her shoulder with surprising strength.
“Keys,” she said firmly, holding out her hand.
“Why?” The word came out slurred, his tongue feeling thick and uncooperative.
“Give me your car keys. You aren’t driving,” she said, leaving no room for argument. “I’m driving.”
Nobody drove his car. The world tilted dangerously, and he had to close his eyes until it steadied.
“I can get a car service.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She maneuvered them toward the parking area where he’d left his car on Friday. “Keys. Now.”
He surrendered them, too miserable to maintain his usual iron grip on control. She helped him into the passenger seat with quiet competence before stowing their bags in the trunk. When she slid into the driver’s seat, she adjusted everything, as if she’d been driving his car for years.
“Your address?” she asked, starting the engine.
“You don’t need to come home with me.”
She gave him a sidelong glance as she pulled out of the parking space. “Address, please.”
“Devney,” he said, summoning what little energy he had left for an argument, “the weekend is over. Contract nearly signed. You’re off duty.”
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. “Is that what you think this is? A duty?”
“It’s a business arrangement,” he said, though every instinct rebelled against the words. “Consider yourself released from further obligations.”
She pulled the car to an abrupt stop at a red light, turning to face him with fire in her eyes. “For a brilliant businessman, you can be remarkably dense.”
“Why?”
“A business partner would leave you at the curb with your keys and a polite ‘take care.’ A colleague might call a car and send a follow-up email on Monday. But someone who cares about you wouldn’t walk away when you’re clearly not okay,” she said. “Give me the address and let me help you.”
“890 Park Avenue,” he said after a moment, surrendering to whatever this was between them. “Penthouse B.”
She nodded, making a skillful turn uptown. “Thank you.”
They drove in relative silence, the classical music playing through the car’s speakers. Bach again, he realized with bitter irony. The same piece he’d played for her yesterday, when the world had felt different and his defenses hadn’t been quite so compromised.
“You don’t have to take care of me,” he said finally, unable to leave the matter unsettled. “I can manage.”
She sighed. “I know you can manage. You’ve probably been managing everything alone since you were twelve. But sometimes, the point isn’t whether you can do everything by yourself. It’s whether you should have to.”
“I don’t need—” he began, but she cut him off.
“Need is irrelevant,” she said simply. “Want, on the other hand…”
She navigated through the Sunday traffic, handling his car with surprising skill. He leaned his head against the cool window, closing his eyes against another wave of dizziness.
“For what it’s worth,” she added quietly, “I want to help. Not because of our arrangement. Not because it’s good for business. Simply because.”
Because she cared. As if caring could be that simple, uncomplicated by expectations or obligations or the careful cost-benefit analyses that governed every other relationship in his life.
By the time they reached his building, speaking required more energy than he possessed. She handled everything: valeting the car, retrieving their bags, nodding to the doorman with such confidence that he didn’t question her presence at Ronan’s side.
In the elevator, she supported more of his weight than he wanted to admit, her arm firm around his waist as his fever climbed higher. The short walk from the elevator to his door felt interminable.
“Which key?” she asked softly, holding up the ring.
“The black fob.”
She unlocked the door and helped him inside. His apartment looked strange through feverish eyes: too large, too sterile, too empty.
This was his life, he realized with uncomfortable clarity. Beautiful, expensive, and utterly devoid of warmth.
“Bedroom?” she asked, still supporting him as they crossed the threshold.
He nodded toward the hallway to the right, letting her guide him down it. His bedroom appeared before them, the massive bed with its hospital corners and dark bedding suddenly the most inviting sight imaginable.
“Sit,” she said, lowering him to the edge of the mattress with careful hands.
He wanted to protest as she knelt before him, her fingers working to untie his shoes. This level of intimacy crossed boundaries.
The sight of her there, kneeling at his feet, struck him as profoundly wrong and strangely right simultaneously.
She set his shoes aside with care before helping him swing his legs onto the bed. The domesticity of the gesture felt both foreign and familiar, as if they’d done this a hundred times before.
“Rest,” she said, pulling the covers over him with gentle hands. “I’ll get water and more Tylenol.”
As she turned to leave, he caught her wrist, his fingers circling the delicate bones. The touch was electric, even through the haze of fever.
“Why?” he asked, the single word carrying the weight of everything he couldn’t voice.
She looked down at where his hand held hers, then back to his face. “Because I’ve spent six months watching you take care of everyone else. The company. Your clients. Your team. Even me, in your own prickly way.” Her lips curved. “It’s time someone took care of you for a change.”
He released her wrist, watching as she walked to the door.
She paused at the threshold and glanced back. “Besides,” she said, “your refrigerator is probably stocked with nothing but protein shakes and one sad apple. Someone needs to order you real food.”
With that, she disappeared down the hallway, leaving him alone with the realization that for the first time in years, he’d willingly let someone cross the fortified boundaries of his private life.
More unsettling still was the recognition that instead of regretting it, he found himself hoping she’d stay.