Chapter 5: Saturday Night Dinner
Sean stood on the stone steps of the brick townhouse at precisely 7:59 PM, a bottle of Barolo in one hand and a knot of unfamiliar tension in his stomach. The Capitol Hill air was cooler, mistier than in his downtown tower. He’d dressed down—dark jeans, a simple grey cashmere sweater—feeling, absurdly, like he was going into a negotiation without his deck.
He rang the bell. The sound echoed inside.
The door opened, and there she was. Paige wore faded, perfectly fitted jeans and a silk blouse the color of claret, untucked. Her hair, her natural hair, was a glorious cloud of soft curls around her face, longer and wilder than he’d ever seen it. She looked younger. Softer. More dangerous.
She leaned against the doorframe, a slow grin spreading across her face as she took him in. “Right on time. Congratulations.”
“For what?” he asked, holding out the wine.
She took the bottle, her fingers brushing his. “You’re the first white man to step foot in this house.”
The words landed, a deliberate little grenade. They hung between them in the damp evening air. It was a joke, but the kind with serrated edges, a fact wrapped in a challenge. He blinked, then gave her his most disarming smile. “I’ll try not to scuff the floors.”
She laughed, a real, unfiltered sound, and stepped back to let him in. “Come on in, trailblazer.”
The townhouse was a study in controlled warmth. Polished oak floors, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning, mist-obscured view of the city lights and a sliver of the dark Sound. It was minimalist but not cold. Books lined built-in shelves, legal volumes mingling with novels. A large, abstract painting in blues and golds dominated one wall. It smelled of jasmine, espresso, and underneath it all, the rich, savory scent of something cooking.
“This is…” He turned, taking it in. It was so her. Organized, beautiful, with a fierce, private soul. “It’s not what I expected.”
“What did you expect? A dorm room? A war room covered in red string?” She led him into the open-concept kitchen, which was indeed a chef’s paradise. Sleek stainless appliances, a massive island of honed quartz. A pot simmered on the stove, the source of the incredible smell. “It’s a house. I live here.”
“I know. It just makes you…” He struggled for the word, leaning against the island. “Three-dimensional. In a way the courtroom or a restaurant doesn’t.”
“Careful, Callahan. That sounds almost poetic.” She poured the wine he’d brought into two large glasses. “You’re off your game. Nervous?”
“Terrified,” he admitted freely, accepting the glass. “Your honor system is more intimidating than any judge’s.”
“Good.” She clinked her glass against his. “Keep that energy.”
She moved back to the stove, stirring the pot. He watched her, the easy command she had in this space. She wasn’t his hostess. She was the sovereign of this domain, allowing him a temporary visa. “So what’s on the inspired menu?”
“Braised short ribs. My grandmother’s recipe. Collard greens. Rosemary parmesan grits.” She didn’t look at him, but he saw the slight, self-conscious tilt of her head. “It’s a lot of food. It’s what you make when…”
“When it matters,” he finished softly.
She glanced at him then, a flicker of surprise in her brown eyes. She covered it with a shrug. “When you want to show off, yes. Now make yourself useful. You can slice the bread.”
She gestured to a rustic loaf on a cutting board. He picked up the knife, rolling up his sleeves. For a while, the only sounds were the gentle bubble of the braise, the crackle of the fireplace in the adjacent living area, and the solid thunk of the knife through crusty bread. It was profoundly, unsettlingly domestic.
They ate at the small table by the window, the city a blurred oil painting beyond the glass. The food was incredible—deep, complex, soulful. He took a bite of the short rib, the meat falling apart at the touch of his fork, and actually groaned. “Oh, come on. That’s not fair.”
“What?” she asked, smiling around her own forkful of grits.
“You beat me in court, you’re… you. And you can cook like this? Save some talent for the rest of us, Montgomery.”
“Grandmother Alberta’s doctrine. A woman needs a full arsenal.” She sipped her wine. “What’s your family’s signature dish? Let me guess. Boiled beef?”
He laughed. “Close. A very dry, very overcooked Sunday roast. My mother’s love language was anxiety. The beef was just the casualty.” He twirled his wine glass. “It was perfect, in its own way. The table was always set. We were always there. It was just… quiet.”
“Big family?”
“Just me and my parents. Dad was an engineer. Mom stayed home. They were proud, confused, and terrified by me.” He looked at her. “Your turn. Grandma Alberta. Tell me.”
Paige leaned back, her gaze drifting to the window. “She raised me and my sister from the time I was ten. Our mom… wasn’t equipped. Grandma was a school principal. She believed in discipline, excellence, and that the right meal could fix most problems that didn’t require a lawyer.” A fond, sad smile touched her lips. “She died the year I made partner. Never got to see the office.”
“She’d be proud.”
“She’d be annoyed I work so much.” Paige refilled their glasses. “She’d say I’m storing up trouble in my bones. She believed in leisure. In sitting on the porch. In not letting the world make you hard all the way through.”
“Did it?” he asked, the question slipping out before he could buffer it.
She met his eyes. “Make me hard? In places, sure. It has to. You know that.” She paused. “But I have this house. I cook her food. I keep her china in that cabinet. So, not all the way.”
The intimacy of it, this voluntary sharing of relics and ruins, left him breathless. This was a different kind of nakedness. He felt the weight of his own omissions—the garage, the vertiginous climb, the isolating nature of the summit.
“The first big check I got,” he said, “the one that meant I wasn’t going to lose the house? I bought my dad a new boat. The one he’d always talked about. He’d taught me to sail on this leaky old dinghy.” Sean swirled his wine. “He cried when he saw it. Then he asked me, dead serious, if I’d gotten mixed up in something illegal.”
Paige’s laughter was gentle. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Dad, all of it’s a little illegal until you get caught. That’s what the lawyers are for.’” He grinned. “He didn’t sleep for a week.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I’m a realist.” He grew quieter. “It creates a distance, though. The money. The profile. People either want something or they resent you for having it. It’s hard to know who’s in the boat with you just for the ride.”
She considered him for a long moment. “Is that why you’re here? You think I’m not after a ride?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “that you have your own boat. A really nice, fast, intimidating boat. I’m just trying to sail alongside without causing a collision.”
The conversation deepened, winding through childhood scars and professional bruises. He told her about the first time a venture capitalist patted his head and called him “kid.” She told him about being mistaken for the court reporter, twice, by the same judge. They talked about the performance of it all—his manufactured irreverence, her armor of perfection.
“It’s exhausting, sometimes,” she confessed, pushing her plate away. “Being the only one in the room who looks like you. You have to be twice as good, half as emotional, and you can never, ever let them see you sweat. Because if you sweat, you’re ‘emotional.’ If you get angry, you’re ‘aggressive.’ If you’re quiet, you’re ‘intimidating.’ There’s no right setting.”
Sean didn’t offer empty sympathy. He just listened, a sharp, new understanding cutting through him. Her world had stakes and codes his did not. His wealth was a shield. Her brilliance was a weapon she’d had to forge in a different fire.
“Thursday,” he said finally, the word dropping into the comfortable quiet like a stone. “The deposition. Your partner, Mark. And Ben Cheevers.”
All the softness in her face retracted, replaced by a neutral, professional mask. It happened in a blink. The fortress doors slid shut. “Yes.”
“He’s a good guy, Paige. A family man. He just signed what was in front of him to make a delivery date.”
“Then he’ll be well-prepared by his counsel.” Her voice was cool, even. “The facts are the facts. Mark is a pitbull. He’ll go for the throat. It’s his job. It’s what you’re paying for, on the other side of this.”
“I know.” He held her gaze, not letting her retreat fully behind the professional wall. “I’m not asking for special treatment. I’m just… stating a fact. He’s a good guy who’s about to have a very bad day because of choices I made.”
She studied him, looking for the manipulation, the ask. She seemed to find none. Slowly, the rigid line of her shoulders softened a fraction. “I won’t be in the room. I’ve recused myself from all things Apex. Conflict of interest.” She said the last words with a wry, pointed arch of her eyebrow.
“Right. The… renegotiation.”
“Exactly.” She stood, collecting their plates. “So we don’t have to talk about it. It exists over there.” She gestured vaguely toward the window, toward the city where their professional lives warred. “This is over here.”
He helped her clear, their hands brushing in the quiet kitchen. They stood side by side at the sink, him washing, her drying, a silent, efficient team. The domesticity was back, but it was charged now, layered over the hard truths they’d just unearthed.
When the last dish was put away, she turned, leaning against the counter. The jasmine candle had burned low, painting the room in deep, dancing shadows. “So,” she said.
“So.”
“You survived the inspection.”
“Did I pass?”
“You didn’t try to tell me the collards needed more salt. That’s a point in your favor.” She folded the towel neatly. “Most guys feel the need to mansplain my own grandmother’s food.”
“I was too busy being humbled.” He took a step closer. The air between them crackled, the connection from the penthouse reigniting, but slower now, deeper. It was tangled up with the stories of grandmothers and silent Sunday roasts. “Thank you. For this. For letting me in here.”
She didn’t move away. Her eyes searched his face, as if memorizing the contours in this new, softer light. “It’s just a house, Sean.”
“It’s not.” He reached out, gently tucking a loose curl behind her ear. His thumb grazed her cheekbone. She leaned into the touch, just barely, her eyes fluttering closed for a second.
When she opened them, the vulnerability was there, raw and stunning. “This is a bad idea. The professional thing is a landmine. The personal thing is… a lot.”
“I know.”
“I’m not easy.”
“I’d be disappointed if you were.”
She exhaled a laugh, shaking her head. “Your optimism is a pathology.” Then she kissed him.
It was different from the penthouse. That had been a conflagration. This was a deliberate, deep exploration. It tasted like red wine and shared history and a silent agreement to ignore the ticking clock in the corner of the room. Her hands fisted in the cashmere of his sweater, pulling him closer. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her onto the clear section of the kitchen counter, just as he had on his marble island, but this time she was on home turf. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him.
This time, it was slower. They had hours. They took them. The journey from the kitchen to the bedroom was a slow migration of discarded clothes, of whispered laughter against skin, of pauses just to look. Her bedroom was another surprise—softer, dominated by a large bed with linen sheets, more books on a nightstand.
Later, tangled in those sheets, the city lights painting silver lines across her back, he traced the ridge of her spine. She lay with her head on his chest, her breathing deep and even. He thought she might be asleep.
“My sister thinks I’m insane,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his skin.
“For the short ribs? They were perfect.”
She pinched his side, making him jump. “For this. For you.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her the truth. That you’re persistent. And that you listen.” She lifted her head, propping her chin on his chest. Her curls were a wild halo. “Don’t make a liar out of me, Callahan.”
He didn’t have a glib answer. He just brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, a silent vow in the dark.
He left just before dawn, the mist clinging to his sweater as he stepped back out onto the stone steps. The townhouse felt like a dream behind him, a warm, secret chamber in the cold city. He could still smell jasmine on his skin.
His phone buzzed in his pocket as he walked to his car. It was an alert from a news service. A preview piece about the upcoming Apex Dynamics depositions, speculating on the testimony of one Benjamin Cheevers, a senior director at Callahan Technologies.
The two realities, the two worlds, slammed back together. The warmth evaporated. The chill was inside him now.
He got in his car but didn’t start it. He sat in the grey, pre-dawn light, staring at the glowing screen, then at the dark windows of her house.
She had said it existed over there. But he was starting to understand that for people like them, there was no over there. There was only the battlefield, and they were now standing in the middle of it, holding onto each other while the shells started to fall.