Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The small, square hallway outside Bea’s bedroom was lit with the wintery glint of morning light. Her umma’s hum floated under the door, soft and familiar. Claire was still asleep beside her, arm flung across the pillow like she’d lost a bar fight in her dreams.
She hadn’t said much when she snuck in. Claire had just opened one eye, mumbled something about “not murdered,” and gone back to sleep.
Now, Bea exhaled and sat up slowly.
There was a message waiting.
GAGE: I’m free at twelve.
GAGE: You said she’s the gatekeeper. Let’s meet her first.
Her fingers curled around the phone.
Noon. That gave her two hours. Not to prepare him—Gage didn’t need preparation—but to figure out how to start peeling the bandage off. Claire. Her parents. The rest of it. The part that came after last night.
She typed back.
BEA: Okay. Want me to pick a place?
GAGE: The library café on Palmerston.
She smiled. Of course he found somewhere perfect in her hometown.
Claire groaned from the floor. “If you smile at your phone any harder, it’s going to combust.”
“Get dressed. You’re about to meet him.”
Claire rolled over, hair tangled, eyes barely open. “Now?”
“Lunch.”
That got her upright.
Bea wandered into the kitchen where her umma was carefully placing hot bowls of miyeok-guk beside the rice cooker. Her father’s newspaper was folded in half on the table; he’d read it and gone to work hours ago.
Umma looked up. “You girls came in at different times last night.”
“I was tired from my shift, Imo, so I came back first,” Claire said smoothly, appearing behind her.
Claire called her Auntie, like any self-respecting child with immigrant parents.
First names? Only if you wanted to summon your own mother’s disappointment like a curse.
“I brought my key.” She pulled it from her pocket as proof.
Umma nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Claire had kept a spare to the Cruz house since middle school, when she’d been locked out of her own place after school in the snow—everyone was at work, and no one had remembered to leave the back door open for her.
She’d walked almost an hour to Bea’s, where Bea’s umma took one look at her and said, never again.
Her parents were good people, who often worked nights as a trauma nurse and fire captain. Her three older brothers were already half raised by the time she came along. She was loved, yes. But often left to figure things out herself.
Claire had learned early how to toast waffles and iron uniforms. Bea’s house had been a sanctuary: fun, warm, always stocked with snacks and home-cooked meals.
“What about you?” Umma pointed a spoon at Bea. “Did someone drop you home?”
Bea schooled her deer-in-the-headlights look. “Yeah. I was totally safe, Umma. We knew everyone at the party pretty much.”
Umma tutted. “Eat something.”
Bea nodded, relieved. She took a sip of water, gathered her hair up into a clip, and dutifully had a few spoonfuls before heading back to dress. Jeans, boots, a pale pink wool coat. Subtle earrings. Claire met her at the door.
“What’s the plan?” Claire asked.
“I’m easing you in.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re using me as a buffer.”
“Also true.”
Claire grinned, tossing on her coat. “Let’s go meet the billionaire.”
The place smelled like books and bergamot. Worn leather chairs slouched in corners. Old typewriters sat on polished tables like forgotten relics. Strings of Edison bulbs glowed against the brick walls, and the back shelves stretched floor to ceiling with mismatched hardcovers.
Claire pushed open the heavy door, then stopped. “If he picked this, I’m tentatively impressed.”
Bea smiled. “He did.”
They didn’t have to look for him. He was already in the corner, seated at a round table in a navy sweater, coat draped over the adjacent chair. Three drinks steamed in front of him.
Claire let out a low breath. “Okay. So the photos didn’t do him justice.”
Another smile tugged at Bea’s mouth. “What does that mean?”
“It means he looks exactly the same but twice as imposing.” Claire tilted her head. “He’s waiting for us, but why does it feel like we’ve been summoned?”
Gage stood courteously as they approached, brushed a kiss to Bea’s cheek when she looked up, and smiled. Then he turned. “Claire.”
“Gage.”
They sat, forming a loose triangle. No one was left out. Bea knew that was by design. Without a word, Gage slid a coffee toward Bea, and a mug toward Claire.
Claire picked it up, breathed it in. Spiced apple tea with vanilla. Her favorite. She glanced at him but said nothing.
A waiter appeared, unusually punctual, to take their order. Around them, the café murmured: the clink of spoons, the hiss of milk, the soft shuffle of conversation.
Bea watched, fascinated, as the most electric part of her old life met the most essential part of her new one. If she’d had access to a bag of popcorn, this is the moment she would have dug in.
“So,” Claire began, crossing one leg over the other. “You came all this way.”
“I did.”
“For her.”
Gage nodded once.
Claire took a slow sip of tea. “What happens now that you’re here?”
“Now we see if distance taught us the same thing.”
Claire tilted her head, as if trying to decide whether he was built to last, or just built to impress. “What did it teach you?”
“That summer’s better when she’s there.”
Bea gulped her coffee a little too fast, her heart flip-flopping in her chest. Neither of them paid attention to her.
“You got something against the snow?” Claire demanded.
“She doesn’t belong in the cold,” Gage said mildly.
“So she’s like a houseplant? Needs sunlight and mild temperatures to thrive?”
“You’re her best friend,” he remarked. “You tell me which she prefers.”
Oof. The rally had ended Advantage Gage. They all knew Bea wasn’t built for the winter.
Claire’s eyes narrowed. “You know exactly how intimidating you are, don’t you.”
Gage finally took a sip of his coffee, mouth twitching. “I’ve been told.”
Claire didn’t let her expression change, but Bea knew that look. Claire was, reluctantly, impressed. She just wasn’t ready to admit it yet.
“You have questions,” Gage predicted.
Under the table, his hand found Bea’s knee. Every nerve below the table was suddenly awake.
“Obviously,” Claire volleyed. “But I’m not her dad. I’m not pulling out a shovel or demanding your tax returns.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I will ask this,” Claire said with an impish grin. “What did you think of the dress?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “I liked it. I didn’t like that I wasn’t the one she wore it for.”
Claire arched a brow. “You don’t strike me as the type who worries about competition.”
“I don’t,” he returned. “But it’s her.”
Ugh. Casual soul punch before breakfast. She took another sip just to avoid reacting. But her body had already clocked it. Chest tight. Skin warm. Stupid little thrill tucked under her ribs.
Claire tapped her spoon once against the saucer, then let it drop. “Alright then.”
The food arrived. St. Lawrence Market sourdough, scrambled eggs and bacon, waffles, a mountain of fruit, and quinoa salad with grilled chicken.
For several minutes, they ate in silence. Not awkward. Just loaded.
“You’re here for what, four days?” Claire asked, slicing into her chicken.
“Three and a half now.” He portioned off some bacon and eggs, and slid them onto Bea’s plate.
“I assume you’re planning to meet the parents?”
Bea pointed her fork at Claire. “We were going to ease into this conversation.”
“I’m eased,” Claire said. “He’s a textbook overachiever. You’re halfway there.”
Bea narrowed her eyes, but didn’t protest further. She moved one of her waffles onto Gage’s plate, then doused her own with a generous amount of maple syrup.
Claire set down her fork and crossed her arms. “So. What’s the plan?”
Gage’s eyes cut to Bea’s.
“Dinner, maybe? Tomorrow night?” Her voice came out thinner than she wanted it to.
“That works,” Claire said with a mouth full of salad. “Let Umma get all her nerves out in the kitchen. Let Papa size him up without the pressure of a formal thing. Keep it contained.” Claire swallowed, turned to Gage. “Can you eat spice?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t say that too fast.”
“I meant it.”
She gave him a long, assessing look. “Alright. Then you’ve passed phase one.”
“How many phases are there?”
Claire smirked. “I don’t know yet. I’m making them up as I go.”
The corners of his mouth eased up higher.
“Her dad supervises down at the port. Rough dockside union crew types. He’s not going to be charmed by your tailored coat.”
“I wasn’t going to lead with that.”
“Good. Lead with the fact you work hard, don’t flinch under pressure, and didn’t try to sleep with her on your first date.”
Gage nodded. “All true.”
Bea groaned, dropping her cutlery. “Please don’t say that to my papa.”
“And her umma,” Claire continued, skewering a crouton, “she’ll ask questions that sound sweet, but remember she’s read enough fiction to recognize red flags by chapter two. If she offers you fruit, it’s a test. Say yes.”
“I like fruit,” he said.
Claire narrowed her eyes. “I bet you do.”
Bea laughed out loud then, half melting, half mortified.
They lingered over brunch—talking travel, weather, the surreal mess of returning home after being somewhere that remade you. But underneath it all, the current remained.
The testing had begun. Claire was mostly won over.
As he stood to pay the bill, Claire leaned over and murmured, “Yeah. You’re screwed. He’s terrifying.”
The cutting board was already full of scallions and mushrooms, neatly sliced. Beside it, paper-thin beef rested in a marinade of soy sauce and sesame oil.
Bea dried her hands on a dish towel. “Umma?”
Her mother didn’t look up from the pan. “Mm?”
She almost chickened out, then reminded herself she was twenty-two years old. “Would it be okay if we had someone for dinner?”
Umma glanced over. “Claire?”