Chapter 34 The Roots
THE ROOTS
EMMA
I'm sketching Marie's poster when Tank knocks on the terrace door.
It's become our weekend routine. He does his morning sweep of the building, checks the security feeds. Around ten he appears on the terrace like clockwork. I started leaving the door unlocked for him after the first week.
“Coffee's on the counter,” I say without looking up.
He grunts what might be a thank you, disappears inside. A minute later he's back, mug in hand, settles into the chair across.
“What's today's project?” He nods at my sketchpad.
“Poster for Marie's dance troupe. Their spring show.” I turn the pad so he can see. “I'm trying to capture movement without it looking like clip art.”
Tank studies it with more attention than I expected. “The figure on the left. Her arm's too stiff.”
I look again. He's right.
“You have an eye for this.”
“My sister danced. Before.” He doesn't elaborate on before what. I've learned not to push. “She used to make me watch her rehearsals. I know what a body's supposed to look like mid-turn.”
I erase the arm, try again. Better.
“She'd like this,” Tank says quietly. “The colors. She always said dance needed more color.”
It's the most personal thing he's ever shared. I keep my eyes on the sketch, giving him space.
“I'll make sure there's plenty of color in the final version.”
He nods once. Drinks his coffee.
We sit in comfortable silence, the city humming below us.
When Kai first told me about Tank, I imagined a shadow.
Someone watching from a distance, invisible and impersonal.
Instead I got a man who takes his coffee black, has opinions about dance poses, and always texts before he comes up so he doesn't startle me.
“You eat yet?” I ask.
“I'm fine.”
“That's not what I asked.” I set down my pencil. “I'm making a sandwich. You want one or not?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You don't have to feed me, Emma.”
“I know I don't have to. I want to.” I stand, heading for the kitchen. “Turkey or ham?”
“Ham,” he says after a pause. “Thank you.”
I'm pulling ingredients from the fridge when Kai hobbles in from the bedroom, hair still damp from the shower. He stops when he sees Tank at the terrace table through the glass.
“He's early today.”
“He's right on time. You're late.” I layer ham on bread, add lettuce, tomato, the spicy mustard Tank mentioned he likes. “You slept in.”
“Someone kept me up late watching terrible movies.”
“You picked the three-hour movie.”
“You agreed to it.”
I smile, finish Tank's sandwich and start on a second one for Kai. He leans against the counter, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just...” He shakes his head. “You're making sandwiches for your security detail.”
“I'm making sandwiches for Tank. He's a person, not a detail.”
“I know that. It's just—“ He stops, runs a hand through his wet hair. “You do this with everyone.”
“Do what?”
“Make them feel like they matter. Like they're not just...” He gestures vaguely. “Hired help.”
I set down the knife. “They're not hired help. They're people doing jobs that make our lives easier. The least I can do is learn their names and ask if they want lunch.”
Kai crosses to me, movements careful on his healing ankle, presses a kiss to my temple.
“I don't deserve you,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Probably not.” I let my hair loose to cover my flushed cheeks. “You're stuck with me anyway.”
He laughs, soft and warm, and steals a slice of cheese from the cutting board.
I bring Tank his sandwich. He takes it with a nod that carries more warmth than his usual grunt.
“Rhodes is a lucky man,” he says.
“I'll remind him of that next time he argues about taking his medicine.”
Tank’s lips twitch before settling back into his stern expression. “If you need anything, I'm downstairs. Got some new equipment coming in this afternoon. Security upgrade for the service entrance.”
“Thank you, Tank.”
He heads for the elevator, sandwich in hand. I watch him go, this mountain of a man who checks the locks twice and notices when a dancer's arm is drawn wrong.
Kai appears in the doorway. “Should I be jealous?”
“Absolutely.” I grin at his expression. “He complimented my poster.”
“I compliment your posters.”
“You say 'that's nice, babe' while checking your email.”
“I can multitask.”
I throw a dish towel at him. He catches it, laughing.
Something warm blooms in my chest. This is what I wanted.
What I didn't know I was looking for when I moved to Silverpoint.
Not the penthouse or the man with more money than I could imagine.
This. The easy laughter. The routine. The feeling of being home. Of being wanted.
Kai has a video call with his lawyers at two, so I set up at the dining table with my laptop and sketchpad.
Marie's poster is almost done. A dancer mid-leap, colors bleeding from warm orange into deep purple, other dancers in the background, the title of the show arcing across the top in hand-lettered script.
My phone buzzes. A text from Clio, one of the artists Marie sent my way.
Clio: Emma! The flyers look AMAZING. My gallery showing got twice the usual turnout. Everyone asked who did the design. I gave them your info. Hope that's okay?
I type back.
Me: More than okay. Thank you!
Another text, this one from Derek, a street musician who needed help with his album cover.
Derek: Got three new gig bookings since I started using the promo materials you made. You're a miracle worker.
I'm smiling at my phone when Kai's voice drifts from the study. Muffled through the closed door, but raised. Frustrated.
I can't make out the words, but the tone says enough.
Silence falls. I wait a minute, walk to the study and knock softly.
“Come in.”
He's standing at the window, weight on his good leg, shoulders tight. Laptop closed on the desk.
“Everything okay?”
“Legal complications. Nothing new.”
“Anything I can help with?”
He turns. The tension in his face softens when he sees me. “Not unless you have a law degree I don't know about.”
“Sadly, no.” I study him. The rigid set of his jaw. The way he's gripping the window frame like he wants to crack it. “But I know what you need.”
“What?”
“To leave this apartment. You've been cooped up for days. Let's go.”
He blinks. “Emma, I can't walk far. In case you forgot.” He gestures at the boot.
“I'll drive. Get your jacket.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out. Fresh air. A change of scenery.” I hold his gaze. “Trust me.”
The resistance drains out of him.
“Okay,” he says. “Let's go.”
I grab my coat, shoot a quick text to Tank. Just in case.
The elevator takes us down to the parking garage. When the doors open, I stop.
Cars. A lot of cars. Sleek, gleaming, lined up like they're posing for a magazine cover. I count at least seven before I stop counting.
“Kai.”
“What?”
“How many cars do you own?”
He looks at them like he's never really thought about it. “These are just the ones I keep here.”
“Just the ones you—“ I shake my head. “Never mind. Can I pick any of them?”
He considers the lineup, points to a matte black Range Rover .
“Let's go with this one today. Higher seats, easier on my leg.” He moves to the wall where a row of key hooks hangs, each labeled. So many keys. He plucks one off, hands it to me.
I stare at the fob in my palm. “You're sure?”
“It's just a car, Emma.”
Just a car. Right.
I click the unlock button. The Range Rover chirps in response.
We get in and I immediately feel like a child in a grown-up's chair. Feet barely reach the pedals. Kai watches with amusement as I hunt for the seat adjustment.
“Button's on the left side,” he offers.
I find it, slide the seat forward until I can actually press the brake, adjust the mirrors. The rearview is pointing at the ceiling.
“How tall was the last person who drove this?”
“Ethan borrowed it last month.”
“Giant.”
I finally get everything positioned. “Okay. Let's go.”
I don't test what the car can do. I drive carefully, merge onto the highway heading toward the coast. Kai watches from the passenger seat, injured leg stretched out in the spacious footwell.
“You're a good driver,” he says.
“You sound surprised.”
“I'm not surprised. Just enjoying the view.”
I glance over. He's not looking at the road.
“Eyes forward, Rhodes. I'm trying to concentrate.”
He laughs. The tension bleeds out of the car. The city gives way to suburbs, then stretches of green, then the gleam of water on the horizon.
I pull off at a lookout point I found during my first week in Silverpoint. Back then I came here to cry, overwhelmed by the new city and the weight of starting over. Now I bring Kai here to breathe.
The parking area is nearly empty. One other car, occupants nowhere in sight, probably walking the trail that winds toward the beach. A vendor has set up near the overlook, selling coffee and pastries.
I park, come around to help Kai out. The Range Rover's height actually makes it easier. He swings his good leg out first, carefully maneuvers the boot, accepts my arm for balance. Crutches are in the back but he leaves them.
“I can manage for a bit,” he says when I raise an eyebrow. “Just stay close.”
The ocean wind hits us the moment we step away from the car. Cool, salt-sharp, alive. Kai closes his eyes, inhales like he's been holding his breath for weeks.
Maybe he has.
“Wait here,” I say. “I'll get us something.”
The vendor is a weathered man with kind eyes who calls me sweetheart and insists the almond croissant was baked fresh this morning. I believe him. It's warm when he hands it over, wrapped in wax paper, along with two cups of coffee that smell like actual coffee.
When I return, Kai is at the railing, staring out at the waves. Without the walls around him, without the glass and marble and the weight of everything waiting on his laptop, he looks younger. Lighter.
“Here.” I hand him his coffee. “And we're sharing this.”
He eyes the croissant. “That's enormous.”
“I have a sweet tooth. Don't judge me.”
“I'm not judging. I'm impressed.”
We find a bench set back from the railing, sheltered from the worst of the wind. Wood sun-warmed beneath us. Below, waves crash against the rocks in a rhythm older than anything.
We sit, shoulders almost touching, let the silence settle.
“I forgot what this feels like,” he says finally.
“What?”
“Being outside. Not in a car going somewhere, not walking into a building for a meeting. Just... outside.” He drinks the coffee, eyes on the horizon. “I used to ride out here sometimes. Park the bike at the bottom of that trail and just sit on the rocks until my head cleared.”
“When's the last time you did that?”
He thinks. “Months, maybe. Work got busy. Life got complicated.” He glances at me. “And then you happened.”
“I complicated things?”
“You clarified them.” He says it simply, like it's obvious. “I spent years building ELK, proving I could make something on my own. I thought that was enough. Then you walked into that museum and I realized I'd been missing something I didn't know I needed.”
The croissant suddenly requires all my attention. I tear off a piece, hand it to him, take a piece for myself.
“This is really good,” I say around a mouthful of pastry.
“You're deflecting.”
“I'm enjoying baked goods. There's a difference.”
He chuckles. Some of the tightness in my chest eases. I'm not ready for big declarations. Not yet. But I can sit here with him, share a croissant, watch the waves.
That's enough for now.
The wind picks up, carries the cry of gulls and the distant sound of a dog barking on the beach below. Kaiden shifts closer, his thigh pressing against mine. Warmth bleeds through the fabric.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For knowing I needed this.”
“You were turning gray. I was worried you'd start photosynthesizing if I didn't get you into actual sunlight.”
“I don't think that's how photosynthesis works.”
“I'm a marketing person, not a scientist.”
He takes another piece of croissant.
“This is really good,” he admits.
“Told you.”
We stay until the coffee is gone, the croissant nothing but crumbs, the sun starting its slow descent toward the water. The other car leaves. The vendor packs up his cart, wheels it away with a wave. Just us. The ocean. The wind. Golden light spilling across everything.
Kai takes my hand. His fingers are warm from the coffee cup, slightly sticky from the pastry. I don't mind.
“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,” he says, so quiet I almost miss it.
“What do you mean?”
“This. You. It feels too good.” He stares at our joined hands. “I'm not used to things being good without a cost.”
I think about James. About the years I spent waiting for the kindness to curdle, the charm to turn cruel. About how I learned to flinch before I was even hit.
“Maybe the cost already came,” I say. “Maybe we already paid it, and this is what's left.”
He looks at me. His eyes the color of the ocean. I’m sinking into them.
“Maybe,” he says.
The sun dips lower. The sky turns pink, then orange, then the deep purple of a bruise healing.
“Ready to go back?” I ask.
“Not really.” He squeezes my hand. “But yeah. Let's go home.”
Home. He says it like it includes both of us.
I don't correct him.