Chapter 31 #2
Her lips part slightly, almost nervously. She steps back without speaking and lets me in. I go to shrug out of my coat, but stop myself halfway through. I don’t want her to think I’m assuming anything today. That’s if this is going to be longer than a five-minute conversation.
“How can I help you?” she asks as she closes the door behind me.
Her head tilts slightly to one side, eyes dull with exhaustion. Not angry, not defensive—just distant. I don’t like that. I want her close, not turned away.
“I didn’t like how today ended,” I tell her quietly. “Not after last night.”
“Last night was dinner,” she says. “A thank you. A thank you for sorting out the funding. A thank you for the wellies. Just… a thank you.”
“And the kiss at the end? The moment today?” The questions come out sharper than I intend. Is she really going to pretend it didn’t mean anything?
I glance around the apartment. Everything is minimal. Clean. Almost sterile. No photographs or clutter. No personality. No sign that someone actually lives here. Perfect, but cold. A bit like the persona she shows in the boardroom.
But the woman I met last night wasn’t cold.
The woman I met last night liked being close to me. She wanted my hand on hers. That’s why her pushing me away today feels so bad.
She clears her throat, glancing past my shoulder for a moment before looking back into my eyes.
“It meant something,” she says quietly. “But you and I both know this can’t work.”
I stare at her. “Why the hell not?”
“Look at us,” she says. “We’re both broken versions of the young people who thought they’d have amazing lives. Sure, we’ve built something decent, but people like us don’t get happy endings.”
“People like us,” I repeat. “What do you mean by that?”
She falls silent. Her eyes drift anywhere but toward me as her fingers lace together in front of her, twisting nervously. She’s like a completely different person from the woman I know.
“People who’ve loved and lost.”
That catches me off guard. I shrug out of my jacket. She watches, but doesn’t stop me, and I take that as permission to stay.
“Antonia,” I say gently, “today was hard. The protesters, the board members, the constant fighting just to keep things moving forward.”
I drape my jacket over the back of a barstool beside the kitchen counter, then I turn back to her, reaching for her hands. “But you don’t need to survive me.”
She looks up. Sad. Lost. As if she’s unsure what to say next.
We just stand, staring at each other.
It’s clear that neither of us expected this.
When I first walked into her office last year, asking for funding for the retreat, the last thing I thought I’d find was love. And that’s what this is.
Whether we’ve been together twelve hours or twelve months doesn’t seem to matter. Somewhere along the way, I’ve fallen for her. We’ve built something through shared board meetings and arguments about the color of paint.
It sounds crazy.
But it’s true.
“Ben,” she says quietly, “I’ve worked too hard to endanger my career for love.”
She pulls her hands away, walking past me into the living area before sitting down on the sofa. Two glasses of wine are already poured, sitting on the coffee table. She planned for me to stay. That’s positive.
“Sit,” she says. “You said we need to talk.”
I sit down on the sofa at right angles to hers. We’re perched on the edge—close enough that if I reached out, I could touch her, but far enough away that she still feels safe.
“Opengate has been my world,” she says. “After losing Mikey… and then Luke…”
My face must change. She notices.
“My ex-husband,” she explains quietly. “He left after Mikey died.” She exhales slowly. “I threw myself into fighting the system instead of dealing with myself.”
“I can understand that,” I tell her.
“And opening myself up to someone else,” she continues, “doesn’t feel possible right now.”
I look at her, at where she lives. Everything exactly where it should be.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe I should stay in my lane—her partner on the retreat she’s funding in a philanthropic effort. Not someone crossing into personal territory. Perhaps that’s what makes her uncomfortable.
It makes me uncomfortable too. But I think it’s worth a try. Even if it is a bad idea, nothing could make me move away right now.
“We don’t have to let this affect the retreat,” I say.
She blinks, then she picks up her glass and takes a sip. My focus locks on her neck, the muscle moving softly beneath the smooth skin.
“We’ve found something people spend their whole lives searching for,” I continue. “Don’t you want to see where it goes?”
She shakes her head slightly.
Then nods.
Then shakes it again.
Internal conflict in a single response.
“I’m not sure I can take the risk,” she says.
My wine sits untouched on the coffee table. I don’t feel like drinking. It doesn’t feel like the moment to pretend everything is fine. She takes another sip of hers, stalling, I think, before placing the glass down.
I reach for her hand. “Antonia,” I say softly, “look at me.” She glances up. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. I’ve watched you stare men down and talk to them as if they’re imbeciles. I’ve seen you control a room without even raising your voice. But this… this scares you?”
She laughs then.
The smile transforms her immediately.
I love it.
I haven’t seen her smile often. Last night at the restaurant had been wonderful. Outside afterward, even better. But watching her smile now makes my chest lift.
Our fingers lace together.
“You wouldn’t have asked me to come here if you didn’t think there was something between us,” I tell her. This is my chance. I take it. “If you wanted to end this, you could have sent an email. Or a message.”
She laughs properly this time. “Do you really think I respect you so little that I’d dump you by text?”
I laugh too. “I’d hope not. But I know how easy that option can be.”
Slowly, I shift closer, careful not to move too quickly, and take her other hand.
“You’re worth every risk I’ll need to take. Jump with me.”