Because the truth is somewhere between the fake marriage and the real coffee maker, between the business arrangement and the late-night texts that make me smile.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
We spend the rest of the evening crocheting and gossiping about Amelia's December wedding plans (her fiancé Declan is pre-wedding anxiety-baking, apparently, which Amelia finds "adorable and concerning").
When I finally get back to the penthouse at 11 PM, Victor is in his office, working under the warm glow of his desk lamp. He looks up when I pass the door, his cloudy gray eyes clearing when I stop.
"How was Crochet Night?" he asks.
"Good. We made progress on Amelia's blanket."
"Find everything okay with the coffee maker?"
"I did." I lean against the doorframe. "Thank you. Really."
He shrugs, his hard, broad shoulders rising and falling, but there's something in his expression—a softness, maybe, or just the late hour making him less guarded. "You mentioned missing regular coffee. Seemed like an easy fix."
"It was thoughtful."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late. I'm telling Babushka you're capable of human emotion."
"Please don't."
"She'll be so proud."
He's fighting a smile. I can see it.
"Goodnight, Beaumont.”
"Goodnight, Mr. Kade.”
I head to my room—the guest room that's started to feel less like a guest room and more like my room—and sit on the bed with the French press in my hands, knowing I should pull back.
Reinforce boundaries. Remember that this ends when the two months are up.
But when I pull out my phone to set my alarm for tomorrow, I re-read one of Victor's last texts still on my screen.
VICTOR KADE: See you later tonight. Don't stay out too late.
And I can’t help falling asleep smiling.
12
PROFESSIONAL BOUNDARIES NOT INCLUDED
VICTOR
Saturday afternoon finds me sitting in the back of my Mercedes Benz G-550 truck, stuck in Midtown traffic, trying to focus on crisis management while my phone explodes with increasingly unhinged messages from my friends.
It's the day of the Grandview Hotel opening. My and Harper’s first official public appearance as a married couple. Which means everything needs to go according to plan.
The photos. The story.
The optics.
Rachel has sent me twenty-one emails in the past hour alone, each one more detailed than the last about photo angles and talking points and "couple behavior patterns."
