Chapter 12
TESSA
Tessa woke to sunlight and the unfamiliar weight of an arm across her waist.
For three seconds, she didn’t know where she was. The faint hum of traffic sounded wrong, too muffled, too far below. Her apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up in Park Slope. This ceiling was at least twelve feet high.
Gabriel’s ceiling.
Gabriel’s bed.
Gabriel’s arm, heavy and warm, pinning her in place like he was afraid she’d bolt in the night.
Three times. She was absolutely counting.
Her body ached in places she had forgotten could ache. The good kind.
Gabriel shifted behind her and pulled her closer. His breath was warm against her shoulder, slow and even. He was still asleep.
She should get up. Shower. Find her dress wherever it had ended up. Her phone was probably dead, and she had a meeting with a vendor at two, and she hadn’t checked her email since yesterday afternoon, and—
His palm moved. Slid up her stomach. Cupped her breast like it belonged there.
The vendor could wait.
“Morning.” His voice was rough with sleep. Intimate enough to make her stomach flip.
“Morning.”
“You’re thinking very loudly.”
“I have a meeting at two.”
“It’s seven thirty.”
“And I need to go home, shower, change, answer seventeen emails, and pretend I didn’t spend the night doing what we did.”
His mouth found the curve of her neck. “What did we do?”
“Seriously?”
“I’m asking for specifics. For my records.”
“You have records?”
“Mental ones. I like to be thorough.”
“Oh, you were thorough.” She laughed and turned in his arms to face him.
He looked rumpled—hair a disaster, stubble darker than usual, pillow creases on one cheek. His eyes were soft, unguarded.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You stayed.”
“You asked me to.”
“I did.” His thumb traced her jaw. “Thank you.”
“For staying?”
“For everything. For being here. For trusting me with this.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Too much?”
“No. Just unexpected.”
“What is?”
“You. This.” She gestured vaguely at the bed, the room, the entire situation. “I dropped champagne near you weeks ago. Now I’m naked in your bed.”
“Best champagne accident of my life.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m honest.” He pulled her closer. “Stay for breakfast.”
“I have a meeting.”
“At two. It’s seven thirty. I’ll make you eggs.”
“Can you cook?”
“I make exactly three things well. Eggs, frozen pizza, and reservations.”
“That’s two things.”
He sat up, and the sheet fell to his waist. Her gaze dropped before she could stop it. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Like what you see?”
“Shut up.”
“That isn’t a no.” He grinned, an actual genuine stupid happy smile, and climbed out of bed. He grabbed a robe from the back of the door and shrugged it on without bothering to tie it. “Bathroom is through there if you want to shower. I’ll start coffee.”
He walked out of the room like wandering around his apartment half-dressed was perfectly normal. Maybe it was. Maybe billionaires did that. She didn’t have a reference point for the morning-after etiquette of men who could buy her building.
She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
This was real. She had slept with Gabriel Sterling, actually slept with him, and now he was making her eggs.
Her phone buzzed from somewhere on the floor. She leaned over the edge of the bed and spotted her dress crumpled near the door, her phone glowing in the pocket.
Lucy: Did you die? You didn’t text me last night.
Lucy: Wait.
Lucy: DID YOU FINALLY SLEEP WITH HIM???
Lucy: TESSA IF YOU DON’T ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW
Tessa: I’m alive. Talk later.
Lucy: THAT’S NOT AN ANSWER.
She silenced her phone and dropped it on the nightstand.
Right now, she needed to figure out how to shower in a billionaire’s bathroom without having an existential crisis about the thread count of his towels.
The bathroom had marble floors and a rainfall shower, a tub that could fit four people comfortably. His towels were thicker than anything she owned, and she was trying not to calculate what they’d cost.
Tessa stood under the spray and let the hot water pound the tension from her shoulders. She smelled like sex and Gabriel’s sheets, and the soap on the shelf was some brand she didn’t recognize.
She was standing in the shower of a man she had had sex with last night. Multiple times. Enthusiastically. With what she was pretty sure had been some truly embarrassing sounds.
Totally fine.
She finished showering, wrapped herself in one of those ridiculous towels, and realized she had a problem.
Her dress was on the floor in the bedroom. Her underwear was somewhere near the bed. She had exactly zero other clothing options.
There was a knock on the bathroom door.
“Coffee’s ready,” Gabriel said through the wood. “Also, I left you something to wear. Unless you want to leave in last night’s dress.”
She cracked the door. He had changed while she showered, sweatpants now and nothing else, and stood there holding a folded T-shirt and drawstring shorts.
“These will be huge on you, but they’re clean.”
“You’re very prepared for morning-after logistics.”
“I’m prepared for everything.” His eyes dropped to the towel. “Though I could also be convinced that clothing is optional.”
“Gabriel. It’s Friday. We both have work. Catering doesn’t take weekends off.”
“Right. Work.” He didn’t move. “Or we could call in sick.”
“I’ve got a tasting at two and a site visit after.”
“And I have a partners meeting at ten that Knox will murder me if I miss.” He sighed. “Fine. Clothes. Coffee. Responsible adult behavior.”
“Was that so hard?”
“Extremely.” He kissed her forehead and handed her the clothes. “Get dressed. Breakfast in five.”
His kitchen looked like it belonged in a magazine. She had glimpsed it the night before while the chef worked, but Gabriel had kept her at the table.
Now she could see the marble counters, professional-grade appliances, a coffee machine that probably required a certification to operate.
Gabriel stood at the stove, scrambling eggs with the attention of someone who had watched exactly one YouTube tutorial and was determined not to mess it up.
“The trick,” he said without turning around, “is low heat. Knox taught me. Though he’d say I still cook them too fast.”
“I still can’t believe Knox cooks.”
“Knox is full of surprises.”
She sat at the counter in the borrowed T-shirt and shorts. He was still in the sweatpants, and she wasn’t complaining. He set the plate in front of her with the ceremony of a waiter at a three-star restaurant.
“Breakfast. My entire culinary repertoire.”
“It looks edible.”
“High praise.”
She took a bite. The eggs were good—creamy, well-seasoned, not at all the rubber she had been half-expecting.
“Okay. These are actually good.”
“Told you.” He sat across from her with his own plate. “Tonight. Dinner.”
“Tonight?”
“Unless you’ve plans.”
“I’ve work until six. Maybe seven.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“Gabriel—”
“Too fast?”
She thought about it. About the eggs and the borrowed clothes and the way he had looked at her this morning like she was the best thing he had ever woken up to.
“No. Eight works.”
His smile could’ve powered the entire building. Less than an hour later, he walked her to the elevator.
“I’ll send a car tonight. Eight o’clock.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m sending a car.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Be ready at eight.”
“You’re very bossy.”
“You like it.”
She did. That was the problem.
He kissed her goodbye, slow and thorough.
She held it together until the elevator doors closed.
Then the laugh she’d been swallowing broke free, giddy and disbelieving, and she pressed a hand over her mouth.
Back in last night’s dress, his T-shirt and shorts folded in her bag to wash and return, she stepped onto the street at nine fifteen.
She went home long enough to trade the dress for work clothes that felt almost too ordinary for the morning she’d had, then let the day pull her back into itself.
The tasting went well. The site visit went better. By six o’clock, she was back in her apartment, staring at her closet.
Her phone had been buzzing all day.
Lucy: I KNOW you saw my messages
Lucy: You can’t avoid me forever
Lucy: Spill or I’m coming over
She sighed and hit call.
“FINALLY.” Lucy’s voice exploded through the speaker. “I’ve been dying. Literally dying. Tell me everything.”
“I’m good. We’re good. Everything’s good.”
“You said ‘good’ three times. That means it’s better than good.” A pause. “Did you sleep with him?”
“Lucy.”
“That’s a yes. Oh my God. How was it?”
“I’m not giving you a play-by-play.”
“Highlights. General star rating.”
Tessa laughed. “It was ... good.”
“Good. She says good.” Lucy’s voice dripped with frustration. “That’s like describing the Mona Lisa as ‘a painting.’ Details, Tess.”
“He made me breakfast.”
There was a silence.
“He what?” Lucy repeated slowly. “Gabriel Sterling made you breakfast?”
“Eggs. They were actually good.”
“Marry him.”
“We’ve been together for a few weeks.”
“But you’ve wanted him forever.” Lucy’s voice softened. “How do you feel?”
Tessa looked at the dress she’d worn to his apartment, hanging on the closet door. At his T-shirt and shorts, folded in her bag, waiting to be washed and returned.
“Terrified. Happy. Confused.”
“Sounds about right.” A pause. “He’s different now, isn’t he?”
“Yes and no. More confident. But he still looks at me like...”
“Like what?”
“Like I matter.”
Lucy made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “You’ve always mattered, idiot. He just needed time to figure out how to show it.”
“He’s sending a car at eight. We’re doing dinner again.”
“Then stop talking to me and go get ready. Wear something sexy. Text me tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
She hung up.
Her buzzer rang at eight.
She pressed the intercom. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
She buzzed him up and smoothed her dress. A minute later, there was a knock. She opened the door to find Gabriel in a dark suit, holding roses.
“I thought you were sending a car.”
“I was. Then I decided I wanted to see your face when you opened the door.”
“You’re sweet.”
“Hi.” He looked her up and down, his gaze slow and unhurried. “You look incredible.”
“You brought flowers.”
He handed them to her. “Is that old-fashioned?”
“It’s perfect.” She stepped back to let him in while she searched for a vase. He was standing in her living room, looking at her cookbooks, and she felt more exposed than she had in his bed.
While she arranged the roses, he wandered to the kitchen counter where the battered cookbook sat open, propped to a page held together with rubber bands and sticky notes. He picked it up carefully.
“This is well-loved.”
“It was my grandmother’s.” She set the vase on the counter. “She taught me everything. My culinary career started with that book.”
He opened it carefully and studied the handwritten notes in the margins. “She annotated the recipes.”
“Every page.”
He laid the book back open on the counter and kissed her properly this time, slow and certain.
He tasted familiar. Solid.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
The car was waiting downstairs, a town car with a driver who called her “Ms. Thorne.” Gabriel helped her in, then slid in beside her, his hand finding her knee.
The restaurant was everything and nothing she had expected. Intimate. Candlelit. A place where the menu had no prices.
Gabriel greeted the ma?tre d’ by name, who led them to a private corner table. He ordered wine without looking at the list.
“Do you come here often?”
“Yes, but never with a date.” He reached across the table and took her hand.
“That’s a line.”
“It’s the truth.”
Dinner was extraordinary. Course after course of food so good she stopped thinking about anything except the next bite.
“You keep looking at me,” she said.
“I’m noticing details.”
“Creepy.”
“Thorough.”
By dessert she had relaxed into something that felt almost normal. Conversation flowing. Laughter easy. The rhythm they had had before, before everything got complicated.
“Thursday,” Gabriel said over coffee.
“What about Thursday?”
“Next Thursday. My place. I’ll cook.”
“Eggs again?”
“Expand your expectations.” His eyes held hers. “I might surprise you.”
She was starting to believe him.
In the car afterward, he pulled her close.
“Stay tonight.”
“I have an early meeting tomorrow.”
“I’ll set an alarm.”
“I can’t.”
“I bet I make better coffee than you do.”
She laughed. “That’s your argument?”
“My argument is I don’t want to say good night yet.” His forehead pressed against hers. “But I’ll take you home if you want.”
He meant it. She could hear it in his voice. There was no pressure or strategy. Just honesty.
Her apartment would be quiet. Predictable. Safe in the way solitude always was. She could go back there. Tell herself she wasn’t already leaning into him. Convince herself she didn’t want this.
His thumb brushed her jaw, slow and absentminded, like he already knew the answer and was willing to wait for it.
He was going to win.
“One condition.”
“Name it.”
“You actually set the alarm. Early.”
His smile was wide and warm. “Deal.”
The car turned toward Tribeca.
And Tessa stopped pretending she wasn’t exactly where she wanted to be.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then back at her.
“Ronan wants to know if we’re free next weekend.”
“For what?”
“A trip to their beach house in the Hamptons. You, me, and my entire inner circle.” His thumb stroked the inside of her knee. “No pressure.”
Right. A weekend with the people who mattered most to him. No pressure.
“I’ll check my calendar.”
But they both knew she had already said yes.