Chapter 6
Wednesday night, Adam forwards me a written summary of a call from my husband.
I stop at the first sentence.
Ryan told him to stay away from his wife.
His wife.
I read it twice, fury rising so quickly that my vision blurs. Eleven months of hotel rooms, lies and another woman wearing my earrings, and Ryan still speaks about me as though I am property Adam has trespassed on.
The rest is worse. Ryan accuses Adam of using the Mavericks contract to get close to me, claims sponsors are leaving because I want revenge and insists I still love him.
Adam gives him nothing personal. He tells Ryan that my choices are mine, that the bid process is documented and that any further contact about the Mavericks goes through legal counsel.
Then he sends the summary to me, Elena and both legal teams.
No commentary. No triumphant line about defending me. No mention of the kiss we shared outside the restaurant two nights ago.
I call him.
"You didn't tell him about us."
"That isn't his information."
The answer is so simple I have to sit down.
"Thank you."
"You don't owe me thanks for not using your private life to win an argument."
I look around the apartment I still haven't made mine. "I'm discovering the standards are lower than I thought."
"Then we can raise them."
The next morning, a sports columnist publishes a story accusing Adam of poaching Ryan's sponsors and pursuing his emotionally vulnerable wife. The phrase appears in quotation marks, sourced to someone close to the quarterback.
I am forty-one years old, I own a profitable company and I filed for divorce before Adam ever touched me.
Apparently, I am also too fragile to choose dinner.
Two Mavericks board members question whether my agency's contract should continue while the story circulates. Elena calls before their review begins and asks whether I want to make a statement.
"Publish the bid timeline," I say. "Confirm four firms competed, Adam didn't score us and we haven't approached any sponsor under active exclusivity with Ryan. Then stop."
"No response to the vulnerable-wife language?"
"No. If I argue that I'm rational enough to make my own choices, I'm accepting Ryan's framing. Give them facts."
An hour later, Adam calls.
"The committee voted to continue the contract," he says. "I abstained."
Relief hits me harder than I expect.
"Who can terminate us?"
"Elena controls the work. Disputes go through the committee. I don't approve your invoices."
"And if you decide our relationship is distracting?"
Silence.
Not offended silence. Thinking silence.
"That isn't a contract standard," he says.
"Personal feelings find professional language when powerful people need them to."
"Then we make that harder. Documented performance grounds and an independent review before termination."
"Your lawyers may hate it."
"They are paid to experience discomfort."
I laugh despite myself.
"Thank you for understanding why I asked."
"I do."
By afternoon, the columnist has updated the story with the public bid record and removed the claim that Adam personally awarded me the work. Two losing agencies confirm the process was fair. The story turns away from me and toward Ryan's attempt to pressure another franchise.
For once, I don't have to fix the damage he created.
Adam calls again after the coverage settles.
"You were right about keeping the response boring," he says.
"That may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my crisis strategy."
"I'm building credibility before our second date."
I lean back in my chair. "Are we having one?"
"I hope so."
The answer gives me more pleasure than it should.
"Friday. My place. I can cook, and public restaurants are becoming inconvenient."
"I'll bring dessert."
"Nothing extravagant."
"I understand ordinary baked goods."
"You own a professional football franchise. Your relationship to ordinary requires verification."
Friday evening, I stand in my apartment kitchen cutting lemons and wondering whether inviting Adam here is brave, reckless or simply normal.
Ryan's house had twelve thousand square feet, a chef's kitchen and a wine room I rarely entered because most dinners were built around his schedule. This rental has a small table, mismatched glasses and two suitcases I still haven't fully unpacked.
I like it more every day.
Adam arrives with a bakery box containing four chocolate cookies.
"Acceptably ordinary," I say.
"The bakery has three locations. I checked."
"Still showing off."
We eat lemon chicken and roasted potatoes while a football panel on mute debates Ryan's playoff chances. I keep glancing at the screen until I finally switch it off.
Adam notices.
Of course he notices.
"I keep checking," I admit. "I tell myself it's brand monitoring, then I watch his press conferences to see whether he looks sorry."
"Does he?"
"He looks worried. I spent years teaching him how to look sincere, so I can't tell what belongs to him anymore."
"Do you need him to regret it?"
The question lands without judgment.
I take a drink of water and tell the truth.
"Part of me does. I want him to understand the value of what he threw away. I won't return even if he does."
"Those things can exist together."
"You say that often."
"My family prefers exclusive loyalties. You love us or criticize us. You accept our money or reject us. I learned late that adults can hold conflicting truths without becoming dishonest."
I wait.
He tells me his father once paid his business partner to forward private budgets and emails. Adam discovered six months of surveillance after he'd already repaid his father's original investment.
"What did you do?"
"Bought out the partner, moved the company and stopped speaking to my father for a year."
"Did he apologize?"
"He offered me a larger investment."
My mouth twists. "Money as an apology. I know that one."
"I wondered whether telling you would sound like an attempt to manufacture similarity."
"It sounds like you trusted me with an ugly piece of your life."
He reaches across the table. He doesn't take my hand until I turn my palm up.
The distinction is tiny.
I feel it everywhere.
"I'm careful with money now," he says. "Generosity can become control without anyone admitting it. If we continue, I need you to know I understand that risk."
"My firm stays independent from the Mavericks."
"Agreed."
"If this relationship becomes public, you don't turn me into the good woman who rehabilitates your owner image."
"My owner image is currently boring and demanding. I intend to preserve it."
I smile. "And I don't want secret dates that make me feel as though I'm doing what Ryan did."
"You filed for divorce and told your counsel about us. Privacy isn't cheating."
"I know. My emotions haven't caught up with the facts."
After dinner, we sit on the sofa. I tell him about the first campaign I built for Ryan, when his autograph line had twelve children and nobody knew his name outside Texas. Adam tells me about sleeping under his desk during a software deployment that nearly destroyed his company.
The conversation stops feeling like evidence that we are compatible.
It becomes a date in the most ordinary way possible. Adam carries our plates to the sink without asking where the dishwasher is, opens the wrong cupboard, finds cleaning supplies and looks genuinely offended by the discovery.
"You own a football team," I say. "Surely you can identify a dishwasher."
"I can identify several industrial dishwashers. Yours is camouflaged by cabinetry."
"That is a drawer."
He looks down at the cutlery drawer he has just opened and closes it with dignity.
I laugh hard enough that I have to lean against the counter.
Ryan used to love making a room laugh when cameras were present.
I can't remember the last time the two of us were ridiculous in a kitchen with nobody watching.
Adam eventually finds the dishwasher. I dry the pan while he loads plates badly enough that I rearrange them behind him. He catches me doing it and moves aside with exaggerated courtesy.
"This is why I outsource expertise," he says.
"You're weaponizing wealth to avoid learning plate geometry."
"Correct."
There is music on the small speaker beside my coffee machine. I put on an old soul playlist I used to play while working late before Ryan's game-day playlists colonized every room in our house. Adam doesn't comment on the choice. He just holds out a hand when a slower song begins.
"I don't dance in kitchens," I tell him.
"Excellent. Neither do I."
I take his hand anyway. We move badly in the narrow space between the island and the table, smiling more than dancing.
His palm rests at my waist. Mine settles against his shoulder.
No photographer waits for a usable angle.
No sponsor needs us to look married. Nothing about the moment will become content tomorrow.
That privacy hits me with unexpected force. I press my cheek briefly to his chest and let myself have something small and unnecessary because I want it. Adam doesn't ask what changed. He keeps moving until I lift my head again.
By the time we carry the last glasses into the living room, wanting him no longer feels like proof that I am over Ryan. It feels like a fact about me.
When he kisses me, I lean into him before I can overthink it.
His mouth is warm and patient. My hands settle on his shoulders. Want comes fast enough to frighten me.
I shift onto his lap.
He grips my waist and kisses me harder, and for a few breathless minutes I forget that my life is being discussed by strangers online.
I am simply a woman who wants a man.
Then the speed of my own desire catches up with me.
I pull back.
"I want you."
Adam's breathing is rough. "I want you too."
"I'm not ready tonight."
His hands loosen immediately. "Then we stop."
I stare at him. "You make that sound easy."
"Stopping is frustrating. It isn't complicated."
The sentence almost undoes me.
I kiss him again, softer, then slide off his lap. We eat two cookies and spend fifteen minutes insulting the carpet selected for the Mavericks' training facility until my pulse settles.
At the door, I touch his face.
"Thank you for tonight."
"I enjoyed all of it, including the carpet criticism."
"Especially that."
After he leaves, my apartment feels quiet rather than empty.
Then my monitoring alert lights up.
Ryan has given an interview saying he is fighting for his marriage and blaming outside influences for my refusal to reconcile.
For one sharp second, guilt reaches for me.
Then I remember Madison in my seat.
I close the article.
A message appears from Adam.
Adam: I had a good night. I would like another when you do.
I smile at the screen.
Claire: So would I.
Ryan can tell the world I am confused.
I know exactly which door I closed.
For the first time, I'm curious about the one opening in front of me.