Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
CALEB
The numbers on the financial report swim in front of me, blurring into meaningless shapes for the fifth time in an hour.
I blink hard, forcing myself to focus, but my eyes drift across the room to where Nola sits at her desk, the afternoon light catching in her hair as she tucks a strand behind her ear.
She shifts in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, completely unaware of how the simple movement wrecks my concentration.
She’s wearing one of her modest dresses, dark blue, practical, nothing special. But I know what’s underneath it now. Know the exact texture of her skin, the small birthmark on her left hip, the way she trembles when I touch her just right.
I’m staring again. She doesn’t notice. She’s focused on whatever task I gave her earlier, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration, teeth worrying her lower lip.
I want to cross the room and take that lip between my own teeth.
Want to pull her onto my lap and feel her yield against me the way she has every time we’ve touched.
But there’s something I need to do first.
I set down my pen with a decisive click. Nola looks up, her green eyes finding mine instantly, a question in them.
“I’ll be back shortly,” I tell her. “Continue with the press release draft.”
She nods, that small smile playing around her lips, the one that’s just for me.
“Yes, sir.”
I find Franklin in the main kitchen, overseeing the preparation of what will likely be tonight’s dinner. He straightens when I enter, a question in his eyes but not on his lips. Franklin never asks unless asked first.
“I need two things handled,” I tell him without preamble.
“Certainly, sir.”
“First, contact Davis and have him RSVP yes to the foundation gala. Two attendees.”
If my head of household is surprised by this instruction after six years of declining the same invitation, he doesn’t show it.
“Of course, sir. And the second matter?”
I hesitate. I haven’t bought clothing for a woman since... ever.
“I need a wardrobe delivered for Ms. Vance,” I say, the words clipped and professional.
“Appropriate attire for the office, casual wear, and formal options for the gala. Everything in her size.” I pause.
“Include the green silk gown from Valentino’s recent collection.
The one that matched her eyes in the advertisement. ”
Franklin doesn’t blink at the fact that I’ve apparently been keeping track of dresses that match Nola’s eyes.
“Any particular delivery location, sir?”
“Her room. Have it arranged this evening while we’re at dinner.”
“Very good, sir. Anything else?”
I shake my head, already turning to leave. Then stop.
“Make sure there are shoes. And... whatever else women need.” The thought of Nola’s undergarments brings heat to my face, ridiculous as that is given the intimacies we’ve already shared. “Have a personal shopper handle the details.”
“Of course, sir.”
I leave Franklin to his tasks, knowing they’ll be executed with perfect efficiency.
The gala. I’m actually going to do this.
Going to walk into a room full of donors and board members and society photographers, with my scarred face on display. Going to stand in front of people who will know, or at least strongly suspect, exactly why I started the foundation.
For years, I’ve funded the foundation anonymously, signing checks but never showing my face.
And now, for her, I’m tearing it all down.
Dinner is a quiet affair, just the two of us at the small table in my private dining room. Franklin serves us himself, disappearing between courses with silent efficiency. I barely taste the food. My mind is too full of what’s coming.
I wait until we’re midway through the main course before setting down my fork with deliberate care.
“We’ll be attending the foundation gala,” I say simply, watching her face.
For a moment, she freezes, fork halfway to her mouth. Then her eyes widen, emotions flickering across her face so quickly I can barely track them. Surprise. Confusion. Understanding.
And then something that makes my chest tighten. Pure, unfiltered joy that she tries to contain but can’t quite manage.
“The foundation,” she repeats, setting down her fork. “Your foundation.”
I nod once. “Yes.”
“When?” she asks, voice soft.
“Next Saturday at the Branford Hotel in New York.” I pick up my fork again, needing something to do with my hands. “We’ll fly down that morning and return Sunday.”
“You’ll be expected to accompany me as my guest,” I continue. “There will be dinner, speeches, the usual charity auction. Formal attire is required.”
“I don’t have—“ she begins, then stops herself. “I’ll need to find something appropriate to wear.”
“It’s been handled,” I say.
Before she can ask what I mean, I notice she’s pushing food around her plate rather than eating it. I fix her with a steady look, letting my voice drop.
“Finish your food like a good girl,” I tell her.
Her eyes snap to mine. She knows exactly what that tone means.
“Afterward,” I add, holding her gaze, “Daddy has a surprise for you.”
The color that rises in her cheeks is immediate. Her fork is back in her hand without conscious thought, her body responding to my command before her mind has fully processed it.
“Yes, Daddy,” she says softly.
She lowers her eyes and takes a bite, then another, her movements precise and obedient. I watch her eat, something satisfied moving through me at the sight.
When she finishes everything on her plate, she looks up at me through her lashes.
“Good girl,” I murmur. “Very good.”
The smile that spreads across her face makes me have to look away from it, from the naked emotion there that threatens to undo me.
I push back from the table and extend my hand to her. She takes it without hesitation, her fingers small and warm against my palm.
We take the elevator to the east wing. The corridor is quiet, the overhead lights dimmed to their evening setting. We stop outside her door.
For a moment, I hesitate. What if she sees this as an imposition rather than a gift? What if she thinks I’m trying to change her instead of simply wanting to give her options she’s never had?
“Close your eyes,” I tell her, my voice rougher than I intended.
She complies immediately, her eyelids fluttering shut without question.
I open the door, place my hands on her shoulders, and guide her forward. The lights come on automatically. I position her in the center of the space, then step back.
“Open your eyes.”
She does, then goes completely still.
For a long moment, she just stares, her breath caught in her throat.
The room has been transformed. A clothing rack runs the entire length of one wall, dense with garments in a spectrum of colors and fabrics.
Blouses, skirts, pants, sweaters, dresses for every occasion.
Shoe boxes stacked neatly beside it. On the dresser, discreet bags contain lingerie and accessories.
An entire wardrobe for a woman who arrived on my mountain with barely enough to fill a single drawer.
“What...” Nola’s voice is barely audible. She takes a step forward, then another, moving toward the rack as if in a trance. “What is this?”
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You need appropriate attire for the gala. And for other occasions.”
She turns to look at me over her shoulder, disbelief clear on her face. “Other occasions?”
“Life doesn’t stop at one gala, Nola.”
She turns back to the rack, her hand reaching out slowly, fingers trailing over the fabrics like she’s afraid they might disappear at her touch.
Silk, cashmere, fine cotton. Textures I take for granted but that I suspect she’s rarely owned.
Her movements are slow, methodical, savoring each discovery rather than rushing through.
Then she reaches the end of the rack, where the evening wear hangs.
Three formal gowns. But it’s the last one that I’ve been waiting for her to discover.
She pulls it out, the emerald silk shimmering under the room’s lighting. Her sharp intake of breath is audible.
The dress is floor-length, with a modest neckline that dips just low enough to hint at curves, the waist tailored to accentuate her frame, the color a perfect match for her eyes.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh, it’s...”
She turns to look at me, the dress still held in her hands, and the expression on her face hits me like a blow to the chest. Open. Unguarded. Joyful in a way I’ve never seen anyone look before.
“Caleb,” she says. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing all of this?”
I take a step toward her, unable to maintain the distance any longer. Then another. Until I’m close enough to touch her, though I don’t. Not yet.
“Because you’re mine,” I say, the words rough with an emotion I’ve never let myself feel before, let alone express. “Because I want to give you everything you’ve never had. Because—“
I stop, the words sticking in my throat. Then I force them out, because she deserves to hear them. Because they’re true.
“Because I know it’s fast, but I’m falling in love with you.”
Her eyes widen, the dress momentarily forgotten. For a heartbeat that stretches into eternity, she just stares at me, and I brace myself for rejection. For her to tell me it’s too soon, too much, too intense.
Instead, she carefully lays the dress across her bed, smoothing the silk with gentle hands. Then she turns back to me, closing the distance between us.
“I’m falling in love with you too,” she says, her voice steady despite the tears brightening her eyes. “I know it doesn’t make sense. I know it’s fast. But it’s true.”
Something breaks open in my chest at her words. My hands move of their own accord, cupping her face. I search her eyes for doubt or hesitation, finding none. Just clear green honesty looking back at me.
“Say it again,” I demand.
A small smile curves her lips. “I’m falling in love with you, Caleb Asher.”
I kiss her then because I have to. Her lips are soft beneath mine, yielding and eager all at once. Her hands come up to grip my shirt, holding on like I’m the only solid thing in a spinning world.
This kiss is different from the ones before. Slower. Deeper. More deliberate.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. I rest my forehead against hers.
“I’ve never said that to anyone before,” I admit. “Never felt it.”
Her hands tighten in my shirt. “Never?”
“Never.”
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “I’ve never said it either. Not to anyone but Bea.”
I kiss her again, slower this time, pouring everything I can’t say into it. Then I pull back, reaching past her to the emerald dress still laid out on the bed.
“Try it on,” I say.
Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods, taking the dress from my hands. “Now?”
“Now.”
She turns away, a hint of pink coloring her cheeks. It’s absurd, this sudden shyness, given everything we’ve done together. I’ve had every inch of her body beneath my hands, my mouth. Yet this makes her blush.
“Here,” I tell her, my voice dropping lower. “Let me watch you.”
The pink deepens, but she nods, her hands going to the buttons of her dress with only a slight tremor. I watch as she undoes them one by one, revealing inches of skin I already know by heart but somehow never tire of seeing. The dress slips from her shoulders, falling to the floor.
She stands before me in simple cotton underwear. Practical, modest.
The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I force myself to remain still, to watch as she steps into the emerald silk, drawing it up over her hips, her torso, slipping her arms into the delicate straps.
“Can you...?” She turns, presenting her back to me, the dress gaping where she can’t reach the zipper.
I step forward, hands steady as I draw the zipper up, sealing her into silk that clings to every curve as if it was made for her body alone. It was. I had her measurements sent to the designer.
“Turn around,” I tell her.
She does, slowly.
And then she’s facing me, and the green makes her eyes glow, brings out highlights in her hair I’ve never noticed, makes her skin luminous.
For a moment, all I can do is stare.
She is exquisite.
“Do you like it?” she asks, a hint of uncertainty in her voice as she smooths her hands down the front of the dress.
“I love it.”
I cross the distance between us in two strides, my hands finding her waist, drawing her against me. Her gasp of surprise is swallowed by my mouth as I kiss her hard, everything I can’t say poured into the press of my lips against hers.
When I pull back, we’re both breathing hard again, her hands clutching my shoulders, my grip on her waist tight enough that I might be leaving marks on the silk.
She believes me. Believes in this impossible thing growing between us. Believes in me, scars and walls and all.
And I’m starting to believe too.