Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
PATRICK
The valet at Acquerello gave my Land Rover a look that suggested I’d arrived at Buckingham Palace on a bicycle. Not the usual Ferrari or Porsche the restaurant was accustomed to, I imagined. But with a herd like mine, a sports car was out of the question.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, craning her neck to take in the vaulted ceiling as we entered. Original stained glass cast jeweled patterns across white tablecloths, and the soft murmur of conversation mixed with the clink of crystal.
The host led us to a corner table—intimate without feeling claustrophobic. I pulled out Theresa’s chair, and as she settled in, I noticed it immediately.
Her wedding ring had moved from her left hand to her right.
A slight gesture, really. A shift of metal from one finger to another.
But I understood the significance. I wore my ring for six months after Shannon died, unable to let go of that last physical connection.
When I finally removed it, my finger felt naked for weeks, like I’d lost a piece of myself all over again.
She’d moved it, not removed it. Still honoring Marco but making room for something new.
“You’re staring,” she said softly, pink touching her cheeks.
“Sorry. You look lovely tonight.”
She did. The deep blue dress brought out the warmth in her brown eyes, and she’d done something different with her hair—swept up in a way that exposed the elegant line of her neck.
But it was more than that. There was a lightness to her that hadn’t been there before, like she’d set down a burden she’d been carrying for months.
“Board approval suits you,” I said as the sommelier approached with the wine list.
“Does it show that obviously?” She laughed, and the sound went straight through me. “I feel like I can finally breathe again.”
I ordered a bottle of Barolo—a fine Italian wine for a fine Italian restaurant seemed appropriate—and watched her face as she described the board meeting.
Her eyes lit up as she talked, her hands moving with a kind of bright, unfiltered excitement.
What she said hardly mattered. What caught me was the spark in her—the confidence, the life. It was impossible to look away.
“Arthur actually apologized,” she said, shaking her head. “After months of trying to push me out, he suddenly wants to help with the regulatory filings.”
“Do you trust him?”
She considered this, taking a sip of wine. “I don’t know. Maybe he genuinely realizes I’m not going anywhere and wants to be on the winning side. Or maybe he’s playing a longer game.”
“Either way, you’ve won this round.”
“Thanks to you.” She reached across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “Patrick, I need you to know—this isn’t just gratitude. What I feel for you isn’t because you helped save my company.”
My pulse quickened. “What is it then?”
She pulled her hand back, but her eyes stayed on mine. “I don’t know yet. That’s what scares me.”
The waiter arrived with our appetizers, and we let the conversation drift to safer topics. But there was an undercurrent now, a tension that had nothing to do with business partnerships.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” she said, twirling her fork through the creamy cheese. “Something that has nothing to do with work or children or loss.”
I thought about it. So much of my identity had become tied to those things. Who was I beyond that?
“I wanted to be an archaeologist when I was a boy,” I admitted. “Used to dig holes all over our estate in Scotland, convinced I’d find Viking treasure or Roman coins. It drove my mother mad.”
“Why didn’t you pursue it?”
“Responsibility.” The word came out heavier than I’d intended. “My father died when I was twenty. The estate, the business interests—someone had to manage it all. Then, Shannon and I married, and children came quickly. Dreams of digging up the past gave way to building the future.”
“Do you regret it?”
I considered this. “Sometimes. But then I look at what I’ve built with my business, and the children, and I think perhaps this was always the path I was meant to take.”
“You could still do it,” she said. “Take up archaeology as a hobby. God knows you have the resources.”
“Perhaps.” I smiled at the thought. “And you? What dream did you abandon?”
She blushed. “It’s silly.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I wanted to run a wildlife sanctuary for injured birds of prey.” She laughed self-consciously. “I was obsessed with hawks and eagles as a child. Used to check out every book on raptors from the library.”
“That’s not silly at all. Why didn’t you?”
“Same as you, I suppose. Life happened. College, Marco, CarideoTech, children. The dream got smaller and smaller until it disappeared entirely.”
“Maybe it’s just dormant. Waiting for the right time to resurface.”
Our entrees arrived, and we ate in silence for a few moments. The food was exceptional, but I was more aware of her than anything on my plate. The way she closed her eyes when she tasted something particularly good. How she unconsciously leaned toward me when she spoke.
“Can I ask you something personal?” she said suddenly.
“More personal than abandoned dreams?”
“Much more.” She set down her fork, her expression turning serious. “Did you hesitate? About this I mean. Us having dinner again.”
I paused, watching the candlelight flicker in her eyes. I knew what she was really asking. Is this too soon? Is this too complicated with ten children between us? Is this betrayal?
“I hesitate about everything these days,” I admitted comfortably. “I have six grieving children and a company in transition. I hesitate before I decide what to make for breakfast.”
She gave a small, nervous smile.
“But when it comes to you?” I shook my head. “No, I don’t hesitate. You’re the only thing I’ve been sure of in months.”
Her shoulders relaxed, but she still looked searching. “Really?”
“I’ve been sitting in high-level strategy meetings, supposed to be discussing immunotherapy protocols, and instead, I’m replaying a conversation we had.” I held her gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Theresa.”
She was quiet for so long I worried I’d said too much.
“I’m glad,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. “Because I was starting to think I was losing my mind. I’ve been reviewing balance sheets and seeing your face in the margins. It... it hasn’t made sense.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m sitting across from you in a converted chapel, wearing my wedding ring on my right hand, trying not to think about how much I want you to kiss me again.”
Her words settled for a moment, rending me speechless.
I set down my glass with a smile. “Well, now you stole my planned seduction speech.”
“You had a speech?”
“I’ve been practicing it in the shower for three days. Different accents and everything.” I leaned forward slightly. “The Scottish version was winning, but the French one had its merits.”
She laughed, and some of the tension eased. “Now I’m disappointed I’ll never hear it.”
“Who says you won’t? I’m quite adaptable.” I reached across the table, my fingers finding hers. “Though I have to say, your version was considerably more effective than anything I’d rehearsed.”
“Was it?”
“Aye. Made me forget how to form sentences for a moment there.”
“Good.” She turned her hand over, lacing her fingers with mine. “Because I’ve been thinking about kissing you since the moment you picked me up tonight, and I’m tired of pretending I haven’t.”
My pulse jumped. “Is that so?”
“Very much so.”
The moment got interrupted when the tiramisu arrived. We picked at it as the conversation drifted to trivial topics, but those conversations were just a front, because underneath it all was a new current of possibility.
“I should probably tell you,” I said as I signed the credit card receipt, “I’m not interested in casual.”
She looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m thirty-five years old with six children and a company to run. I don’t have the time or energy for dating games or undefined relationships. If we do this—whatever this is—I want it to be real. I want to know we’re building something.”
“You’re talking about the future. Long-term.”
“Aren’t you?”
She was quiet as we left the restaurant, quiet as the valet brought the car around, quiet for the first few minutes of the drive. Then out of nowhere, she said, “I never wanted just four children.”
I nearly swerved. “What?”
“Marco and I wanted a big family. Six, maybe seven kids. But after Aspen was born, he got so focused on the company, on the next big breakthrough. We kept saying ‘next year’ until...” She stared out the window at the passing city lights. “I’m thirty years old, Patrick. If I want more children...”
“I have six already,” I said.
“I know.”
“You have four.”
“I know that too.”
“Are we really having this conversation? On our second dinner?”
She turned to look at me. “Again, isn’t that what you just said you wanted? Real? No games?”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Aye.”
“Then yes, we’re really having this conversation.”
We’d reached the Embarcadero. Instead of heading toward the freeway, I pulled into a parking spot. “Walk with me?”
The waterfront was beautiful at night, lights from the Bay Bridge reflected in the dark water. We strolled, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm. The fog was rolling in, giving everything a soft, dreamlike quality.
“I snore,” she blurted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“If we’re being real, no games, you should know. I snore. Not delicately either. Marco used to say it was like sleeping next to a freight train.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Well, I leave cabinet doors open. Every single one. Shannon used to follow me around the kitchen, closing them behind me.”
“I can’t sleep without socks on. Even in summer.”
“I reorganize the refrigerator when I’m stressed. Everything grouped by category and expiration date.”
“I ugly cry at commercials. The ones with the dogs especially.”
She stopped walking, turning to face me. “We’re really doing this? Getting to know each other? Building something?”
“I’d like to. If you’re ready.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s barely been four months. People would say it’s too soon.”
“People aren’t living your life.”
“My children—”
“We’ll go slowly with them. Let them get to know each other as friends first.”
“Your children—”
“Will need time too. But Theresa...” I touched her face gently, the way I had that night at the conference.
“I’ve spent over a year just existing. Going through the motions for my children, for the company, for everyone but myself.
Meeting you made me remember what it feels like to want something for myself again. ”
She leaned into my touch. “I know exactly what you mean.”
We stood there for a moment, the fog wrapping around us, separating us from the rest of the world. Then she pulled back slightly, looking over my shoulder.
“That’s the Ritz-Carlton.”
I turned. The hotel rose behind us, elegant and imposing. Theresa paused, her gaze lingering on the entrance. For a split second, my mind raced. What was she hinting at?
“We could go in.”
My pulse jumped. “Theresa—”
“Not to the restaurant or bar. They have... rooms.”
The implication hung between us, heavy with possibility.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, but I could see the nervousness in her eyes, the war between desire and propriety.
“We don’t have to,” I said. “We can wait. There’s no rush.”
“Patrick.” She stepped closer, her hand flat against my chest. “Tonight, just tonight, I want to do something for myself. Is that terrible?”
“No, it’s human.”
“Then take me inside.”
We walked into the hotel lobby hand in hand. The night clerk barely looked up as I requested a room, though I imagined judgment in his professional disinterest. Theresa stood slightly apart, studying a painting on the far wall, maintaining plausible deniability.
The elevator ride was silent, charged. I could hear her breathing slightly faster than normal. When we reached our floor, I almost asked again if she was sure, but the way she looked at me—determined, nervous, wanting—stopped the words.
The room was elegant, understated. City lights sparkled through floor-to-ceiling windows. But I wasn’t looking at the view outside.
Theresa stood just inside the door, suddenly uncertain. “I haven’t... I haven’t been with anyone else since I was nineteen years old.”
“We don’t have to do anything,” I said, meaning it. “We can just talk. We can leave right now if you want.”
She shook her head, crossing to me with sudden determination. “I don’t want to leave.”
When she kissed me, it wasn’t like that tentative moment in her driveway. This was intent, purpose, need. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me down to her, and I forgot about being careful or appropriate or any of the reasons this might be too soon.