I steered him away from the noise and the chains with plastic menus and into a quiet little bistro tucked between a bookstore and a florist. The kind of place I went when I needed to remember I was still human, not just a signature at the bottom of an email.
The host recognized me—they always did—and led us to a booth half hidden behind a partition. Good. I didn’t want an audience.
Clayton slid in carefully, setting his duffel beside him like a guest at the table. His hands were tight fists on the wood grain. He didn’t look at me.
I hated that. I wanted to see his eyes. I wanted him to stop bracing for impact.
“You did well tonight,” I repeated quietly.
He flinched. Then, slowly, that shy smile appeared, soft and genuine. “Thank you, sir.”
The wordsirwas barely audible—private, like a confession. I didn’t correct him. God help me, I liked it.
The waiter came, all smiles and water glasses and chatter. I ordered without thinking—two steaks, rare and medium, roasted vegetables and potatoes. Clayton’s face lit up at that. I filed it away.
When I reached for the wine list, I caught his eye. “I’m going to order red.”
He grinned, hesitant but real. “My favorite vacation was once exploring the Tuscany vineyards.”
That stopped me. I hadn’t expected that—the hint of depth, the life behind the careful politeness. “Tuscany?” I said, a little surprised. “Good choice.” I passed him the list. “Order your favorite.”
He looked startled by the invitation, then even more so by the lack of prices on the menu. But he didn’t panic. Just breathed, straightened his shoulders, and ordered a Brunello. I liked that too—the quiet bravery of it.
I let him taste the wine when it came. His hands trembled just a little. Maybe from nerves. Or maybe because I doubted he was eating properly. I’d seen that look before, in employees who’d come from nothing and still couldn’t quite believe they belonged at the table.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering my voice. “Olivia’s going to be talking about this for weeks."
His eyebrows shot up. “She said you were a bit of a grinch.”
“She’s not wrong,” I admitted with a faint smile. “But you made even me enjoy it.”
He went still, eyes flickering down. I saw it—that quick flash of disbelief before the warmth settled in. Like nobody’d ever told him he made something better. It hit harder than I expected.
“She’s always nagging me to do more family things,” I said, mostly to fill the silence.
“More family events?”
I sighed. “Exactly. She’s right. I inherited a failing company, and I’ve fixed the numbers, but not the people. Staff turnover’s through the roof, and we just missed a major deadline because of it.”
He tilted his head. “What do you do?”
It startled me—how gently he asked. Most people wanted to knowwhat I owned.Notwhat I did.
“Media,” I said finally. “My father ran a lifestyle magazine when those still meant something. We’ve gone digital now. Mostly features. Human-interest pieces, niche markets.”
“Niche markets?” he prompted, voice curious.
The devil in me wanted to see his reaction. “Little Life,” I said.
It was subtle—the way he froze, the pink blooming up his throat. He looked down fast, pretending to adjust his napkin.
And just like that, I couldn’t look away.
“Clayton?”
He lifted his gaze. His pupils were huge, his cheeks pink. He opened his mouth, closed it again, the napkin twisting tighter between his fingers.
“You’ve heard of it,” I said gently.
