Chapter 16
The rich scent of coffee nudged her awake, an aroma too real for dreams. She blinked, momentarily disoriented by her surroundings. The sleek leather couch beneath her, the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Manhattan’s morning skyline.
It took her a moment to remember where she was. His penthouse. The events of yesterday flooded back—his fever, the soup, their surprisingly easy conversation in the kitchen. She must have fallen asleep on his couch after checking on him one last time.
Someone had draped a cashmere throw over her during the night.
The gesture sent unexpected warmth through her. Even while recovering from illness, he’d thought to ensure her comfort. It was such a small kindness, yet it felt monumental given how carefully he guarded his personal space.
“Good morning.”
She turned toward the voice, pushing herself upright.
He stood in the kitchen doorway, looking remarkably more human than he had yesterday.
His color had returned, though shadows still lingered beneath his eyes.
He’d exchanged yesterday’s sweatpants for dark jeans and a gray Harvard T-shirt that somehow looked expensive despite its simplicity.
“You’re up,” she said, running a hand through her hopelessly tangled hair.
“Astute observation.” His dry tone offered a strange comfort. He gestured behind him. “I ordered breakfast.”
She rubbed at her eyes and squinted at him. “You did?”
“From that bakery you mentioned. The one with the strawberry croissants. You once said the powdered sugar they use ‘tastes like optimism.’”
She’d made the comment months ago during a particularly stressful morning when he’d been especially demanding and she’d been stress-eating pastries in the break room.
“You remembered that?”
“You talk frequently,” he said, tone dry but not unkind. “Some of it registers.”
The casual way he dismissed his own thoughtfulness made her chest ache. This man who claimed to hate distractions had remembered her ridiculous metaphor from three months ago and acted on it.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He nodded once, uncomfortable with her gratitude. “Don’t expect it to become routine.”
But she was already beginning to hope it might.
She untangled herself from the throw and walked toward the kitchen, conscious of her rumpled clothes and the fact that she probably looked like she’d been sleeping on couches.
The kitchen counter held an assortment of fruit, yogurt parfaits, and pastries, including her favorite strawberry croissants.
“Impressive,” she said, reaching for the coffeepot. “Especially for someone who was delirious with fever yesterday.”
“I wasn’t delirious,” he objected, leaning against the counter.
“You curled up in my lap like a cat.”
A flush crept up her neck at the memory of his head against her thigh, his arm slung across her legs. The weight of him, so solid and trusting in her arms.
“A momentary lapse in judgment.”
“A sweet momentary lapse,” she corrected, pouring herself coffee. “But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell anyone you enjoy being comforted when you’re sick.”
“I do not enjoy—” He stopped, shaking his head. “You’re baiting me.”
“Always,” she said cheerfully, taking a sip of coffee. It was perfect—strong but not bitter, exactly how she liked it. “You even got my coffee right.”
“You’ve mentioned your preferences often enough,” he said, but the words lacked their usual edge.
She selected a strawberry croissant from the bakery box and settled onto one of the bar stools, studying him. “You’re looking better, but you should still take it easy.”
“I’m well enough to go to the office,” he said, already sounding decided. “I have meetings I need to—”
“Nope,” she interrupted, popping the ‘p’ with too much enthusiasm. “We already called out sick. The meetings are rescheduled. You are officially on sick leave today.”
“Devney—”
“Ronan,” she countered, mimicking his authoritative tone perfectly. “You worked all weekend at the Beauchamps’. You need to rest.”
He gave her an incredulous look. “Sailing and dinner parties are hardly work.”
“Aren’t they, though?” she challenged, setting down her coffee. “Think about it. We couldn’t let our guard down for a single minute. Every conversation, every gesture, every look was part of a performance. That’s more exhausting than any board meeting.”
He paused, considering her words. “You seemed to excel at it.”
“I was terrified the entire time,” she admitted. “One wrong word and the whole charade falls apart. That’s work. Emotional work.”
“I hadn’t considered it as stressful as work,” he said, his voice quieter.
“Most people don’t,” she said. “But trust me, playing a role, even one you’re good at, is draining.
Add in a dip in the Atlantic, fever, and our usual workload, and it’s a recipe for getting sick all over again.
” She took another sip of coffee, holding his gaze.
“So. One day. To recover. Is that really so unreasonable?”
He frowned, but she could tell she was winning. “What exactly would this ‘recovery day’ entail?”
“Normal human activities,” she said. “Food. Rest. Maybe a movie or two.”
“Movies,” he repeated, as if she’d suggested competitive yodeling.
“Yes, movies. Those things with pictures and sounds that tell stories.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Don’t tell me you don’t watch movies.”
“I watch documentaries,” he said defensively.
“Of course you do,” she laughed. “Let me guess—financial histories and exposés of corporate scandals?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being informed about one’s industry.”
“Nothing at all. But today is about recovery, which means actual relaxation. Entertainment.”
“I’m not watching romantic comedies,” he said, his expression so genuinely alarmed that she had to bite back laughter.
“What do you have against romantic comedies? Afraid you might crack an expression? Or worse, have an emotion?”
He rolled his eyes, but she caught the slight lift of his lips.
“I prefer entertainment with some basis in reality.”
“Says the guy who reads financial projections for fun,” she teased. “Fine, no rom-coms. We’ll find middle ground.”
She glanced down at her wrinkled clothes. “But first, I need to freshen up. Any chance you have clothes I could borrow? I’d rather not spend the day in yesterday’s outfit.”
He looked momentarily taken aback, as if the request puzzled him.
“I…suppose I could find an option.”
“Nothing fancy,” she assured him. “A T-shirt would be fine. The stuff I packed for the weekend is still in your car, and I’m not exactly up for a wardrobe run right now.”
He nodded, setting down his coffee. “I’ll see what I can do.”
While he disappeared into his bedroom, she helped herself to another pastry and explored the living room more thoroughly than she’d had time for yesterday.
Like everything else in his home, it was elegant, expensive, and oddly impersonal.
No family photos, no mementos, nothing that revealed the man behind the wealth.
The only hint of personality was the bookshelf tucked into the corner.
Filled with well-read paperbacks showing clear signs of use—creased spines, bent corners, curling pages softened by handling.
She ran her fingers along the titles, discovering an eclectic mix of classics and contemporary fiction.
Hemingway next to Murakami. Austen beside McEwan.
“Here,” his voice startled her. He stood a few feet away, holding out a neatly folded Harvard T-shirt and what looked like drawstring pajama pants. “These should work.”
She glanced at the identical logo on the shirt he was wearing.
“Wait, will we both be wearing Harvard?” she asked.
He looked down, then back at her. “Completely unintentional.”
She laughed. “Adorable. Do we get monogrammed robes next? Maybe matching crests?”
“You’re welcome,” he grumbled, but there was no heat in it.
She headed to the bathroom, marveling again at the marble-and-glass luxury. She washed her face, grateful for the unopened toothbrush and toothpaste he’d thoughtfully included with the clothes.
His T-shirt was unsurprisingly soft, probably some ridiculously expensive cotton despite its simple appearance.
It hung loose on her frame, reaching mid-thigh.
The crimson Harvard logo had faded from many washings, making it somehow more intimate than if it had been new.
She had to cinch the drawstring pants tight and roll the waistband to keep them from falling down.
When she emerged, he was on the couch, scrolling through his tablet. He looked up, and something quick and unreadable flickered in his eyes before his expression became neutral again.
“Better?” he asked, his voice oddly tight.
“Much,” she said, moving across the room to join him. “Thanks for the clothes. Very Ivy League chic.”
He cleared his throat, setting the tablet aside. “I was reviewing the streaming options. Since you’ve insisted on this…relaxation day.”
“Look at you, already embracing the plan,” she said, curling up at the opposite end of the couch. “What did you find?”
“Nothing with singing, dancing, or improbable romantic scenarios,” he said firmly.
“Killjoy cinema it is,” she said with a grin. “Let me see.”
They eventually settled on a thriller that promised enough intelligence to satisfy him and enough actual plot to keep her entertained. As the movie began, she was acutely conscious of the deliberate space between them—necessary but somehow ridiculous.
The cognitive dissonance was striking. They’d maintained a careful professional distance for months, yet here she sat in his living room, wearing his Harvard T-shirt, about to spend the day watching movies. The intimacy of it should have felt strange, but instead it felt right.
About twenty minutes in, she pulled the cashmere throw over her legs, suppressing a shiver. The air conditioning in his penthouse was set to arctic levels.
“Cold?” he asked, noticing the movement.