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There was also Winston. Alexander had mentioned him so matter-of-factly, and he was certain I would like him. Who was he? A longtime friend? A retired architect? Some distinguished gentleman who appeared at dinner every Thursday? Each of these seemed equally plausible.

Would Winston stay with us all night, or would Alexander and I have private moments to ourselves? The last time we had, he held me against the wall and whispered my name. How much longer would either of us pretend that kisses were enough?

It was with all of this in mind that I spent the next few hours getting ready. I hadn’t been physically intimate with anyone since my divorce, and somewhere over the past few weeks Alexander had awakened a part of me I had begun to believe had disappeared with my marriage. It wasn’t that Alexander wanted me. It was that a man I admired so deeply could look at me with such unmistakable desire. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed feeling seen.

I lingered over every step of getting ready. I wanted to cherish these moments as much as I would enjoy the evening with Alexander. I made a cup of chamomile tea, lit a lavender candle, and gave myself permission to take my time. The shower lasted longer than usual because I wasn’t in a hurry for the evening to arrive. I washed my hair with my favorite shampoo, worked conditioner through the ends. Afterward, I smoothed lotion over my skin before wrapping myself in a soft robe.

The candle flickered on the vanity, classical music drifting through the room as I applied a face mask. This felt less like a routine and more like a quiet celebration. By the time I was ready to get dressed, I felt calmer than I had all afternoon. Even choosing what I wore beneath my clothes became part of the ritual. I considered one set, then another. Black lace won. It always made me feel beautiful.

Because tonight was different from previous nights, I reached for a pair of indigo jeans that fit me perfectly and a cream cashmere sweater that felt indulgent against my skin. No formal dress. This evening called for something different. I wanted something comfortable, elegant, and effortless. Nude flats completed it, practical enough for walking while still feeling polished.

I looked at my reflection one last time. It felt exactly right.

The knock came precisely at seven o’clock. I took one last steadying breath, crossed the room, and opened the door. Alexander stood in the corridor with one hand resting lightly in the pocket of dark denim jeans. He wore a taupe cashmere sweater instead of the impeccably tailored jackets I had grown accustomed to seeing. The sleeves were rolled once at his forearms. He seemed somehow younger, more approachable, and no less unmistakably himself.

His eyes found mine and a slow smile appeared before he gave the smallest shake of his head.

“…those jeans. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Heat rose immediately to my cheeks. I looked at him from head to toe, then back at myself before laughing. “We’re wearing the same outfit.”

He glanced down at his sweater and jeans before looking back up. “Apparently, we are.”

“I spent nearly an hour deciding what to wear.”

“So did I.”

I don’t know why I found that so unbelievable, but it made me laugh again.

He offered me his arm. “Ready?”

I slipped my hand through it. “Yes.” I picked up the small bakery box I’d left beside the door.

His eyes dropped to it. “What’s that?”

“Cannoli. I passed the bakery this afternoon and thought we might like them.”

“We?”

“Yes. You, me and Winston.”

He laughed and together, we walked toward the elevator.

* * *

Nothing about Alexander’s home surprised me. And somehow, everything did.

I’d been in his office on the tenth floor of the Research Pavilion, where everything reflected the Chairman of Blackwood Hall. I’d wandered the library, where the building itself seemed to speak. But this…this belonged entirely to Alexander.

The proportions were generous without being superfluous. Just inside the entrance was a small seating area, separated from the rest of the apartment by double doors. Through them, the main living space opened toward the kitchen and a wall of terrace doors overlooking the city.

We walked into the main living area. Books occupied one wall, but unlike the library in the main building, these shelves followed no institutional logic. Architectural theory rested beside Italian poetry, well-worn novels shared shelves with biographies, and decorative bookends created space for framed photographs.

Near the far window, a drafting table stood exactly where the evening light would have been best before sunset. Sketches lay across its surface in various stages of completion. Some were little more than pencil lines establishing proportion while others had acquired layers of tracing paper, revisions carefully taped over earlier ideas. One sheet rested beneath a scale ruler, its margins crowded with small notes written in Alexander’s precise hand.

Alexander lit the fire. Schubert drifted through the apartment, soft enough to become part of the room rather than demand attention. A bottle of wine waited on the kitchen counter while the aroma of garlic, rosemary, and fresh bread lingered in the air.

The apartment didn’t feel arranged for my arrival. I had the distinct impression that, had I come an hour earlier, I would have found Alexander much as he was now. I had expected beauty. Blackwood Hall had prepared me for that. What I hadn’t expected was how unmistakably personal his home would feel.