Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Summer
The soft hum of the night filled the foster home as Summer gently pulled the blanket over Jake’s small frame.
His breathing had finally evened out, his body curled up in the safety of his bed, his tiny fingers still loosely clutching the edge of his hoodie as if letting go meant he would lose something.
The sight made her chest ache in ways she couldn’t explain.
His face, now relaxed in sleep, was so different from the tear-streaked one she had seen earlier, when fear had clouded his every movement.
She didn’t know how long she had been sitting beside him, smoothing a hand over his hair, letting herself believe for just a few moments that he was okay, that she had done enough tonight to make him feel safe again.
But the truth gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. Had she really done enough?
She had seen this before—children who had been through too much, children who carried invisible wounds so deep that even when they smiled, they weren’t really smiling.
Jake was one of them, and she hated that she understood exactly how he felt.
With a deep breath, she carefully stood, not wanting to wake him.
She watched him for a second longer before finally forcing herself to leave the room, stepping into the dimly lit hallway and pulling the door shut behind her.
The exhaustion hit her the moment she exhaled, her body suddenly heavy with everything that had happened that night.
She needed sleep, needed to shut off her mind for a few hours before she had to wake up and do it all over again.
Pushing open the front door, she stepped outside into the cool night air, rubbing her hands over her arms. She had barely taken two steps toward her car when she saw him.
Leaning against a sleek black car parked near the curb, arms crossed, posture relaxed, eyes watching her.
Her breath hitched before she could stop it.
Malcolm Sinclair.
The way he stood there, as if he had all the time in the world, as if nothing had changed in ten years, sent a ripple of something sharp through her.
His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his tie loosened just slightly, as if he had abandoned perfection but only by choice.
And then there were his eyes—sharp, unwavering, locked onto her as if he had been waiting.
She came to a halt, crossing her arms over her chest, tilting her chin up just slightly. "Are you stalking me now?"
The corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. "You flatter yourself."
Her lips pressed together in irritation, even as a part of her stomach tightened at his familiar arrogance. "Then why are you here?"
He pushed off the car with a lazy kind of ease, stepping toward her with that same confidence he had always carried. "Come have dinner with me."
She blinked. Of all the things she expected him to say, that was not one of them.
"I—what?"
"Dinner," he repeated, hands slipping into his pockets. "You eat, don’t you?"
She gave him a look. "Obviously."
"Then come with me."
She scoffed, shaking her head. "Malcolm, I just spent the entire night chasing after a lost kid and almost had a heart attack doing it. Do I look like I have the energy to sit through dinner with you?"
"You have to eat anyway," he pointed out. "Might as well have company."
She let out an exasperated breath, already trying to think of an excuse. "I have food at home."
His eyebrow lifted. "Let me guess. Leftover takeout and a half-empty bottle of cheap wine?"
Her mouth opened, then closed. "That’s rude."
"It’s accurate."
She glared at him, but he only smirked, like he knew he was winning this argument without even trying.
"I’m going home," she said firmly.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze never wavering. "It’s just food, Summer." His voice dropped, the teasing edge softening just slightly. "I promise I won’t propose."
A small, involuntary laugh escaped before she could stop it.
And just like that, she knew she had lost.
She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Fine. One dinner."
Malcolm’s smirk widened. "Good choice."
She rolled her eyes, stepping toward his car. "You’re insufferable."
He opened the passenger door for her with a maddeningly smug look. "And yet, here you are."
She muttered something under her breath as she got in, ignoring the way her pulse felt a little too erratic for comfort.
The restaurant was a small, tucked-away place, the kind of cozy setting she hadn’t expected from him. Soft lighting, exposed brick walls, warm wooden tables that made the space feel comfortably intimate rather than extravagant. The contrast to his billionaire lifestyle was almost jarring.
He slid into the seat across from her, too comfortable, too at ease, like he belonged anywhere he went. She tried to ignore how ridiculously good he looked with his sleeves rolled up slightly, how his watch gleamed under the light, how his presence filled every inch of space between them.
"Still processing how I managed to convince you?" he asked, watching her with that insufferable amusement.
She sighed, setting her menu down. "Still deciding if I regret it."
His lips quirked. "Harsh."
"Honest."
The server arrived, taking their orders, and the moment the drinks were set down, she finally broke the silence.
"So," she said, lifting a brow. "How’s billionaire life?"
He exhaled, swirling his glass. "It’s just numbers and meetings, really."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "That’s a very detached way of describing something most people would kill for."
Something shifted in his expression. It was subtle, the kind of thing most people wouldn’t notice. But she did. The way his jaw tensed for just a second, the way his fingers hesitated around his glass before continuing.
"It’s not as glamorous as people think," he admitted after a beat. "Money doesn’t make you belong anywhere."
Her chest tightened.
"You deserved a home," she said softly.
His gaze flickered to hers, something unreadable passing through it. Then, after a moment, he let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "You always did have a habit of saying things I don’t know how to respond to."
She smirked. "It’s a skill."
His lips twitched, but something about the moment lingered.
The food arrived, and their conversation shifted. She talked about her work, the kids, the ones like Jake who carried ghosts on their shoulders. He listened—really listened—in a way she hadn’t expected.
"You're really good at this," he said eventually.
She blinked. "At what?"
"Fighting for people," he murmured. "Even when they don’t believe they deserve it."
Her throat tightened. She quickly took a sip of her drink, trying to ignore the way those words hit her.
"You always were stubborn," he added, smirking.
She snorted. "Please. You were worse."
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping lower. "I still am."
Her breath caught.
His gaze flickered down for half a second—to her lips, to the way her fingers gripped her glass—and suddenly the restaurant felt too warm, too small.
She pulled back, clearing her throat. "Well. This has been sufficiently weird."
Malcolm chuckled. "Weird?"
"You know. The civil conversation, the not arguing every five seconds."
He smirked. "Oh, don’t worry. I’ll get back to that soon."
She groaned. "Fantastic."
He laughed, the sound unfairly good, and she realized, with growing horror, that she wasn’t nearly as unaffected by him as she wanted to be.
And that?
That was a problem.