Chapter 36
Clara
My hands are shaking.
Actually shaking.
The nose of the plane dips and my stomach swoops somewhere near my knees as Manhattan comes into view beneath us—steel and glass and glittering water.
“You okay?” Greyson’s voice crackles through my headset, calm as ever.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I just didn’t realize when you said you were flying to New York that you meant you were actually doing the flying.”
Even without seeing his face, I can hear the grin in his voice.
“We’ll land in one piece, Trouble. I’m a good pilot. Have my license and everything. I promise.”
That promise does dangerous things to me.
He sounds so sure. So steady.
I make a small sound that’s neither agreement nor panic and close my eyes, defaulting to rosaries in my head—leftover muscle memory from childhood weekends at my Catholic grandmother’s house.
Hail Mary, full of grace—I clasp my hands together.
The wheels touch down.
Smooth.
Controlled.
Perfectly, beautifully uneventful.
When we taxi to a stop and the engine powers down, I rip off my headset and grab him, kissing him like we just survived a crash landing instead of the most competent descent in aviation history.
He laughs against my mouth, hands sliding to my hips.
“I told you, I got you,” he murmurs.
He does. Have me, that is.
We exit the plane and when we’re on firm ground, I kiss him again just to be sure.
He groans, licking into my mouth, his big hands reach down and cup my ass possessively.
I whimper.
I really like it when he does that.
Someone clears their throat.
“Sir, your car is here.”
I freeze.
Greyson does not.
He straightens, entirely unbothered, and nods at a straight-laced man in a tailored coat waiting just outside the small private hangar.
Your car.
Of course.
I barely have time to process that before I’m being ushered toward a sleek black limo parked on the tarmac like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Our luggage disappears.
The door closes.
The city unfolds outside the tinted windows.
I know this skyline.
I grew up in this skyline.
But sitting here beside Greyson, watching him look completely at ease, it feels different.
When we pull up to one of the most exclusive hotels in Manhattan, we don’t go through the main entrance.
No revolving doors.
No gawking tourists.
We’re directed through a private entrance, into a private elevator.
“I don’t like a lot of crowds or attention,” he explains quietly.
I nod. Because who does?
“That’s fair.”
When the elevator opens into the suite, I stop walking.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view of the city that costs more per night than most people’s rent.
Clean, understated luxury.
“Okay,” I say slowly.
Then I just go for it, because ultimately, that is who I am. I speak my mind. Can’t help it.
“My family has money. I’ve told you this. But holy shit. What is all this?”
He turns to me.
And for the first time since we landed, he looks vulnerable.
“Don’t get nervous,” he says carefully. “But I have money too. A lot of it.”
I blink.
That’s what he’s worried about?
“I don’t care about money, Grey.”
“Me either,” he says quickly. “It’s not, it’s just not what I’m about. And I didn’t lead with it because it’s not even a thing for me.”
I step closer.
“Okay.”
He frowns slightly. “Okay?”
I smile.
“Yeah. Okay. I get it, having money isn’t always a blessing. And it doesn’t matter to me if you have it or don’t.”
“It doesn’t? And you know I wasn’t trying to hide it because of trust issues, right?”
“I know. And I trust you, Greyson. With all of me.”
I say it because it’s true. I do trust him.
Relief softens his entire face.
That turns into gratitude.
Then it becomes something else.
Something dark, hungry—something that makes my panties wet.
He kisses me then. It’s slow and deep. Grateful. Grounding.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
“I love you, too.”
A knock sounds at the door.
He pulls back slightly. “I ordered us dinner before we head to the gallery. Is that alright?”
The gallery.
The show.
His show.
Right.
“It’s perfect,” I tell him.
Room service arrives in polished silence.
When the lids lift, I laugh.
“Pizza?”
“The best Neapolitan place in Manhattan,” he corrects. “But it’s got nothing on Woodhaven.”
We sit on the edge of the bed with the skyline glowing behind us and share slices just like we did on our first real date—sausage crumbles, fresh ricotta, bright tomato.
The city hums below.
The mountain feels far away.
But somehow, sitting here barefoot in a luxury suite, eating pizza with the man I love—it feels exactly right.
Perfect, even.