9. Soleil
NINE
SOLEIL
"I'm coming. Do not let my father leave before I get there."
"He's shaking my hand right now." Nolan's voice was flat, unbothered. I could picture him with the phone pressed to his ear, his free hand at his side, his face revealing nothing, while my father squeezed his palm and sized him up.
"Stall him. Talk about wine. He'll talk about wine for forty minutes."
"I'm not talking about wine, Soleil."
"Architecture. Golf. Literally anything.
" I pressed the phone between my ear and shoulder, wrestling my jacket off the back of my chair.
The framing vendor — Louis, a man who spoke exclusively in paragraphs — had held me hostage for twenty-five minutes debating ash versus walnut molding.
Margaux appeared in the doorway, took one look at my face, and walked straight to Louis.
"She has to go," Margaux said, gripping his elbow and steering him toward the front door. She looked over her shoulder at me. "Go. Now."
"He's going to cry about the walnut again."
"I'll let him cry. Move."
I grabbed my bag, shoved my feet into my boots, and ran.
The cab crawled through midtown. I fixed my lipstick using my phone's camera, smoothed a curl that had escaped its pin, and pressed my palm against my knee to stop the bouncing. Through the cab window, the restaurant appeared, and there they were.
Daddy stood on the sidewalk with his hand on Nolan's shoulder. The gesture I recognized. The one that said welcome. Nolan stood beside him, hands at his sides. His posture straight, his face arranged in the composed expression I was beginning to suspect he'd been born with.
I paid the driver, pushed through the door, and crossed the sidewalk.
Daddy turned at the sound of my heels. His face opened — the wide smile, the lines deepening around his eyes, the look he saved for me. He kissed my cheek and held my shoulders at arm's length.
"Your young man is impressive, Sol." He squeezed once. "We've been talking about bringing him on in an advisory capacity. Fresh eyes on the portfolio."
I looked at Nolan. He met my gaze, his expression neutral. His hands were in his pockets now, his weight resting on one foot — relaxed, or the appearance of it.
My father had just pulled my boyfriend into Lattimore Holdings. My two worlds were sliding together like puzzle pieces. I should have felt something complicated about that. What I felt was pride, warm and simple, filling my chest.
"That's wonderful, Daddy."
He kissed my forehead, stepped toward his car, then turned back and pointed at Nolan. "Dinner on Sunday. Both of you." His eyes crinkled. "You're family now, son."
The car pulled away. The street settled into quiet. Just us, the cold wind tugging at my hem.
Nolan's hand found mine. Not a reach, but a decision. His fingers laced through, his thumb pressing against my knuckle. I looked down at our hands, then up at his face. His eyes were on me.
"You're wearing black again," I said, running my free hand down his lapel.
He looked down at my fingers on his jacket. "You're surprised again."
"I'm going to fix this." I tugged his hand. "Right now."
He didn't move. "Fix what?"
"Your entire aesthetic. It's a crisis." I pulled harder. His feet stayed planted, his eyebrow lifting. "Nolan. Come."
"I'm not a dog."
"Then stop standing there like one who's been told to stay." I yanked his arm. He let himself be pulled, shaking his head, his jaw tight.
The boutique was four blocks south. Wide windows, soft lighting, a place where they brought you water in a glass tumbler before you'd touched a single rack. A woman with cropped silver hair and red-framed glasses looked up from behind the counter.
"Welcome. Can I help you?"
"We need everything." I released Nolan's hand and walked straight to the men's wall. "He's been wearing the same color his entire life."
Nolan looked at the woman. She looked at him — the black suit, the black shirt, the black shoes. She pressed her lips together. "I see."
"She's exaggerating," Nolan said.
I was already at the rack, my fingers sliding across fabrics.
Linen. Cotton. A cashmere blend so soft I stopped and pressed it against my cheek, closing my eyes for a second before pulling it off the rail.
Navy. Rich and deep. I turned, crossed back to him, and held the jacket against his chest with one hand.
My other hand found his shoulder, fingers pressing into the muscle as I studied the color against his skin.
"This," I said.
He looked at the jacket. Looked at me. His mouth was a flat line. "No."
"You haven't even tried it."
"I don't need to try it. I don't wear blue." He crossed his arms, the fabric straining at his biceps. "Blue is not happening."
"You don't wear anything that isn't a funeral color." I pushed the jacket into his crossed arms, forcing him to uncross them to catch it. "That's why I'm here."
I turned back to the rack before he could argue. A shirt — pale blue, open weave, the fabric nearly translucent when I held it to the light. I pressed it against his chest beside the jacket, my head tilting as I studied the combination. My lower lip found its way between my teeth.
His eyes dropped to my mouth — lingering on the lip, staying a beat past accidental. My fingers tightened on the shirt. When I looked up, he was already looking at my eyes, but we both knew where he'd just been.
"Try these." I shoved the stack into his arms. He took it, his jaw shifting, and walked toward the fitting rooms with the posture of a man approaching his own execution.
I turned to the women's section. Drifted through silk blouses, a cashmere cardigan, and a wrap dress in charcoal. My fingers stopped near the back wall.
Black lace. A bralette and matching briefs, delicate, the lace so fine the fabric was nearly sheer. I lifted the hanger from the rack and ran my thumb along the edge of the lace. The craftsmanship was exquisite. The price tag was absurd.
I turned.
Nolan was outside the fitting room, the navy jacket draped over his arm, watching me from across the store. Twenty feet of polished floor between us. His weight shifted to one hip. His eyes were steady, dark, locked on me.
I held the lingerie up, said nothing, and tilted my head — a question. A dare. My eyebrows lifted a fraction.
His jaw worked. His eyes traveled from my face to the lace in my hand. Slowly. Then back to my face. He didn't blink. His fingers tightened on the jacket, the fabric bunching in his grip.
I added it to my pile and turned back to the rack. Behind me, I heard the fitting room door close. The silver-haired associate studied a display table with sudden, intense fascination.
I waited. My fingers traced the lace in my pile. Thirty seconds. A minute. I walked to the fitting room door and knocked twice.
"Someone has to make sure it fits."
Silence. Then the lock clicked. The door opened inward.
The room was small — a bench along one wall, a full-length mirror, a single hook.
Nolan stood in front of the glass. The navy jacket sat on his shoulders.
The pale blue shirt was open at the collar, two buttons undone, a triangle of dark skin visible at his throat.
The color changed him. The severity softened without dulling.
The edges were still there, but warmer, like a blade that had been set down.
"Well?" He turned from the mirror. His hands were at his sides, palms open — a rare gesture of surrender.
I stepped inside. The door swung shut behind me. The room compressed to the two of us and the mirror and the warm air between.
"The shoulder's off." I reached up, gripped the jacket's seam, and pulled it into place.
The muscle beneath the fabric was dense, warm.
I smoothed the lapel with both palms — slow, pressing the fabric flat against his chest, feeling his breathing rise and fall under my hands.
My right hand moved to his collar. I folded it, my fingers brushing the skin at the side of his neck.
His pulse jumped under my fingertip. Fast. Faster than his breathing suggested.
"And this." I tugged the shirt placket straight. My thumb grazed his collarbone. He was completely still.
I bit my lower lip, tilting my head, studying how the jacket fell from his shoulders. When I looked up, his eyes were on my mouth. On the lip caught between my teeth. He wasn't hiding it and wasn't looking away. His gaze was heavy and direct.
I stepped back and turned him by his shoulders toward the mirror. We stood side by side — his dark skin against the navy, my hand still on his arm, our reflections watching us.
"See?" I said. "You look human."
He studied his reflection, his chin lifting. "I looked human before."
"You looked like a weapon before." I met his eyes in the glass. "Now you look like a man."
His reflection went still. His jaw worked. He turned from the glass to face me. The fitting room didn't allow distance. His chest was inches from mine. I could see the texture of the linen, the rise and fall of his breathing, the pulse at the base of his throat.
His mouth found mine. My back hit the mirror — cold glass through my top.
His hands were hot on my waist, fingers pressing into the curve above my hips as he pulled me into him.
I grabbed the front of the navy jacket with both fists and pulled until the fabric wrinkled and the carefully adjusted lapels crushed under my grip.
His mouth was hard, deliberate, his lower lip dragging slowly across mine before he kissed me deeper.
I opened for him. His tongue found mine. My knees softened.
My hands climbed from jacket to collar, collar to the warm skin of his neck, then his hair.
The close-cropped texture was softer than I'd imagined, dense under my palms. I pressed my fingers into it.
He made a quiet, low sound caught in his throat like a word he didn't mean to say.
I pressed harder into his hair, pulling him closer, chasing the sound.
His mouth moved from mine to my jaw. Down the line of my neck. His lips were hot, his breath uneven against my skin. He found the spot below my ear. I gripped his shoulders. My head fell back against the mirror.
"Nolan." His name came out in pieces. Two syllables that used to have consonants.
His lips moved against my pulse. His hands slid from my waist to my hips, his thumbs tracing the ridge of bone through my trousers. Slow. Deliberate. I arched into him.
We stopped. Barely. His forehead pressed to mine. Both of us breathing hard, the small room thick with heat. My fingers were still in his hair. His hands were still on my hips. The mirror behind me was fogged at the edges, our body heat clouding the glass.
He pulled back. His eyes were dark, half-closed, the control peeled back to something raw underneath. He looked at me as he had looked at Rafael's painting the first night.
Then he smiled.
I stared. My hands slid from his hair to his face, my palms on his jaw, holding the smile in place because I was terrified it would disappear.
"There you are," I whispered.
His eyes softened. His hand came up and covered mine on his jaw.
"Have dinner with me this weekend." His voice was low, close, his breath warm on my lips. His thumb moved across my knuckle.
I tilted my head. "We have dinner all the time."
"Not like this." He turned his face and pressed his lips to my palm. "My world this time." His mouth moved against my skin. "There are people I want you to meet."
He kissed me again. Softer. His mouth was gentle on mine, a promise folded into the pressure of his lips. When he pulled back, his eyes held mine — steady and warm.
"Your turn." He nodded toward the bench. The black lace sat atop the pile, delicate against the tissue paper.
I looked at the lace. Looked at him. His expression was innocent. His eyes were not.
I picked up the pile, pressed my free hand flat against his chest, and pushed him toward the door. "Out."
He didn't move. His eyebrows rose. "I could stay." His voice was low, amused, his hands finding my hips again. "Quality control."
"Out, Nolan." I pushed harder. He let himself be moved, his hands lifting from my hips in mock surrender, the ghost returning to the corner of his mouth.
He straightened the navy jacket, buttoned it, and stepped through the door. He pulled it shut behind him. His footsteps moved away, slow and unhurried.
I stood alone in the fitting room. The mirror was still fogged. My reflection stared back — flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair escaping every pin I'd put in that morning. I pressed my fingers against my mouth where his had been.
I was in so much trouble.