Page 122 of Suite 7

“You could get it yourself.”

“I could. But I won’t.”

I look at her for a moment. “You know you’re impossible.”

“You knew that before you got me almond croissants.” The corner of her mouth lifts. “Sir.”

The title in this context, bedroom doorway, Sunday morning, her sitting on my bed, does what it always does.

“Don’t start something,” I say.

She grins. The real one.

I turn and go get her coffee.

When I return, I hold out the cup.

She reaches for it.

I pull it back an inch, and her eyes come up to mine.

“Gerald,” I say.

Her mouth presses together. The effort of it visible in the corners. She is approximately three seconds from losing the battle entirely.

“I don’t know what⁠⁠—“

“You named me after my cactus.”

“Gerald is a classic name.” Her voice is admirably steady.

I look at her. She looks back.

“Sounds like a solid name,” she says, dropping into a register that is apparently meant to be me. Flat. Measured. Deeply serious about a succulent. “Very dependable.”

I hand her the coffee. Then I sit on the edge of the bed, and lean in until my mouth is close to her ear.

“Keep it up,” I say quietly, “and your ass is going to meet something very solid.”

She pulls back just far enough to look at me. Her mouth curls into a grin that’s wide, unguarded and completely hers.

“Is that a threat or a promise, Sir.”

I kiss her. Not brief. Not particularly gentle either.

She has her answer.

23 Vera

A text from Sloane arrives Tuesday morning while I’m mapping the press strategy for a client launch.

Sloane: Come to Kane’s gala with me Thursday night? Cocktail attire. There’s someone I want him to meet!

I read it twice. Set my phone down. Pick it up and read it again.

I knew about the gala. Kane mentioned it when we were together last week, the Sinclair Architecture annual client event, two hundred people, held at the gallery space on Meridian.

I type back before I’ve fully thought it through.