Chapter 14
Everett
The townhouse is empty when I return from the office at two.
Her note sits propped against the French Press coffee maker. Out for the day. Back tonight.
Saturday. Day after the gala. She has her own life.
I check my mail, take the merger documents upstairs. Hartwell projections spread across my desk - revenue forecasts, integration timelines, risk assessments requiring my signature by Monday.
Three paragraphs in, my focus fractures.
Four-thirty. I'm pacing between desk and window, mail sorted and resorted on the hall table, every muscle wound tight.
Tonight could mean six. Could mean midnight.
Four forty-five.
The front door opens.
She appears in the foyer, bag slung over her shoulder, keys jangling, cheeks flushed from cold.
"Oh good, you're home!" She kicks off her shoes, drops her bag. "You will not believe the day I've had. Talia sends her regards, by the way. She thinks you're either a secret romantic or a corporate sociopath, jury's still out." She laughs. "I'm going with romantic. She's cynical though."
I follow her. Open my mouth.
She's already talking. "We went to this place in the Village.
I think you'd hate it, completely chaotic, mismatched chairs, but the avocado toast was incredible.
Something along the lines of running some elaborate long con.
" She leans against the desk, grinning. "I'm paraphrasing, but that's the gist."
She moves to the windows, throwing open the curtains that are never opened. There for looks. Light floods in.
"Where have you been?"
The question comes out harder than I intend.
She blinks. "What?"
"You were gone all day."
"Yes? I left a note. 'Out for the day, back tonight.' It's currently," she checks her watch, "daylight. Definitely not yet tonight."
My jaw aches. "You didn't answer your phone."
"My phone died at brunch. I didn't have a charger." Her expression shifts. "Why are you upset?"
"I'm not upset."
"You look upset. You're doing that thing with your jaw where you're about to crack a molar."
"I had questions about scheduling."
"So text me. Oh wait! You did. And I just explained my phone died." She crosses her arms. "What's actually wrong here?"
"After last night," I say, "after the gala, the photographs. People know your face now."
"So?"
"So that visibility creates exposure."
"Exposure to what? Aggressive brunch invitations?" She shakes her head. "Everett, I had breakfast with my best friend and ran errands. Standard Saturday activities."
"You were in Queens."
Her eyebrows lift. "You want a GPS log now?"
"Where you were mugged. I want to know you're safe."
"I have been keeping myself safe for quite a while now."
"That was before."
She studies me. Those sharp eyes miss nothing.
"You were worried," she says slowly.
"I was concerned when you didn't respond."
"You were worried about me specifically." Her expression shifts - surprise, something softer. "You thought something happened."
I could deny it. Redirect to merger optics and risk management. "Yes."
She uncrosses her arms. "Everett…"
"I was concerned." The words come out clipped. "Car accidents. Mugging. Someone recognizing you from the gala and following you. Scenarios I couldn't dismiss as irrational."
Her expression softens completely. "I'm sorry. I should have charged my phone."
"You shouldn't need to report your movements."
"But you need to know I'm safe."
"Yes." The truth. "Apparently I do."
Silence stretches.
"I was going to pack," she says quietly. "Now that I'm back. Pack up my things and head to my apartment now that the first event is over. I figured you'd want your space back."
The thought hits like a fist to the chest. Coming home tomorrow to silence.
"No."
She blinks. "No?"
"Stay. Through the merger." I force my voice level. "We have more events. More public appearances. Transportation, security…it makes logistical sense." I meet her eyes. "And it gives me peace of mind."
"Peace of mind." She repeats the phrase. "That's almost sweet."
"It's practical."
"It's you admitting you care whether I come home."
The observation lands harder than it should. True. Entirely true.
"I'll increase the monthly compensation," I say. "Twenty thousand instead of fifteen."
"You're bribing me."
"I'm adjusting terms to reflect expanded scope."
"Expanded scope being what? Putting up with your security paranoia?"
She doesn't speak. Weighs my words.
"And if I say no?" she asks. "If I want to go back to my own place?"
"Then you go." The words cost more than they should. "The contract doesn't require you to live here. I can't make you stay."
"But you want me to."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"The workshop you run," I say, shifting tactics. "How much does it cost annually?"
Her expression shutters. "Why?"
"Because I want to fund it."
She stares at me. "What?"
"Full funding. One year. Equipment, supplies, space rental, whatever the Hamilton Community Theater needs." I meet her eyes. "Separate from our arrangement. The workshop continues regardless of what happens between us."
"That's…" Her voice catches. "That's tens of thousands of dollars."
"Because someone should," I say. "And I can."
Her eyes search mine. "You're using the kids to get me to stay."
"I'm solving two problems simultaneously."
"That's manipulative."
"That's efficient." I pause. "But you're right. I want you to stay. And I'm willing to make it worth your while."
She's quiet for a long moment. The house settles around us.
"I won't give up my apartment," she says finally. "I need to know I have somewhere to go when this ends."
"Keep it. I'll cover the rent."
"And I'm not reporting my movements to you. I'm a grown woman."
"Basic communication. Not surveillance."
"I'll text you when I leave. Rough ETA when I'll be back." Her chin lifts. "That's all you get."
"Agreed."
"And the children's theater funding happens whether I stay or not."
"Agreed."
She closes her eyes. Breathes. Opens them.
"Okay," she whispers. "I'll stay."
Relief floods through me, sharp and immediate. She reaches toward me, her hand lifting, hovering in the space between us, then drops it. Offers a small smile instead. "We should probably set some new ground rules. About communication. Expectations."
"Tomorrow," I hear myself say. "We can work out the details tomorrow."
She nods. Heads toward the stairs.
I watch her go. Watch her disappear toward the guest suite on the second floor.
My phone buzzes. Rowan's name lights the screen. I ignore it.
What have I done?