Chapter 15: The Gift of Affection
The river was the color of tarnished steel under the afternoon sky. The jazz trio on the lower deck was just audible over the water sloshing against the hull, a brassy, mournful sound that felt both clichéd and perfect. Aidan stood at the railing, feeling the engine’s vibration thrum up through the soles of his shoes. He’d given the two women space, watching from a distance as Catriona, with her arm still linked through Mei-Ling’s, pointed out landmarks with the authority of a tour guide who’d read the brochure five minutes ago.
Mei-Ling was wearing the new dress. Catriona had chosen it: a simple slip of sage-green silk that seemed to drink the diffuse light. It moved with her, whispering against her thighs. On her feet were a pair of flat, embroidered slippers, not the emerald heels Catriona had teased about. “Practical for the boat,” Mei-Ling had insisted, and Catriona had relented with a theatrical sigh.
Seeing them together like this, in public, was stranger than anything that had happened in the suite. It was a different kind of exposure. Last night’s mirrored ceiling had reflected a contained, private truth. Out here, the truth was just three people among dozens, and that felt far more daring.
Catriona caught his eye over Mei-Ling’s head. She winked, then leaned down and said something that made Mei-Ling laugh—that real, unguarded sound again. It carried on the damp air, cutting through the lazy trumpet solo.
Aidan felt a smile tug at his own mouth. He pushed off the railing and joined them.
“—and that’s supposedly where the mayor had his scandalous love nest,” Catriona was saying, gesturing vaguely at a grand old building on the embankment.
“You’re making that up,” Mei-Ling said, grinning.
“Probably. But it’s a better story.” Catriona slipped her arm free and slid her hand into Aidan’s back pocket, a familiar, possessive gesture. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Our anthropologist is observing the mating rituals of the local bourgeoisie,” she murmured to him, nodding at a group of women in oversized hats sipping champagne.
“Anthropologist?” Mei-Ling asked, turning to face them, the wind catching strands of her black hair and whipping them across her face.
“It’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” Aidan said. He reached out, gently tucking the stray hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek, and she didn’t flinch. She leaned into the touch, just slightly. “Studying us. Figuring out what we are now the… contractual obligations have lapsed.”
She held his gaze, her dark eyes thoughtful. “Maybe. Is that okay?”
“It’s essential,” Catriona said, her voice losing its playful edge. “We’re figuring you out, too. It’s mutual fieldwork.”
The boat rounded a bend, and the city skyline opened up, glass and steel shimmering in the pale light. The music shifted to something slower, a lazy bassline threading under a clarinet’s hum.
“Do you want to dance?” The question came out of Aidan before he could think about it.
Mei-Ling’s eyes widened. “Here?”
“Why not here?” Catriona countered, removing her hand from his pocket. She gave Mei-Ling a gentle nudge toward him. “The anthropologist must participate in the customs to fully understand them.”
There was a small space near the stern, clear of chairs. A few older couples were already swaying there, lost in their own worlds. Aidan held out a hand. Mei-Ling looked at it, then placed her small, cool palm in his.
He led her to the space. He didn’t pull her close, not like last night. He kept a respectable, public distance, one hand on the small of her back, the other holding her hand. They began to move, a simple shifting of weight in time with the music. She was a graceful follower, her body attuned to the slightest pressure from his hands.
“This feels normal,” she whispered after a moment, looking over his shoulder at the passing water.
“Is that bad?”
“It’s terrifying.” She met his eyes again. “The other stuff… what we did… I have a framework for that. A way to understand it. This?” She shook her head slightly. “I don’t.”
“Neither do we,” he admitted, his voice low. “Cat’s talking about fieldwork because it’s the only box she has for it. But there isn’t one. We’re just… doing it.”
She moved a fraction closer, her forehead almost touching his chin. The scent of her new shampoo, something with jasmine, mixed with the river smell. “I liked the blanket,” she said, so softly he felt the words more than heard them. “And the French toast. And the way you said ‘the friend part.’ No one’s ever wanted that part before.”
His chest tightened. He remembered the feel of her tears against his skin in the dark, the absolute quiet of her crying. He’d held her then with a ferocity that had surprised him, a need to shield her that had nothing to do with lust.
“It’s the best part,” he said.
They danced in silence for the rest of the song. When the music ended with a fading note, they didn’t immediately break apart. They just stopped moving, standing there on the gently swaying deck, holding each other’s gaze.
A polite applause broke the spell. They stepped back.
Catriona was leaning against the railing, watching them. Her expression was unreadable, a mixture of intense scrutiny and deep satisfaction. She had her phone out, but it was pointed down, not at them. When they approached, she slipped it away.
“You look good together,” she said, matter-of-factly. “The height difference is charming. Now, I’m starving for something that isn’t hotel food. I saw a place a few blocks up that does small plates. We’re going there.”
The restaurant was all dark wood and exposed brick, buzzing with the early evening crowd. They got a corner booth, tucked away. Catriona ordered for the table, a torrent of dishes arriving—seared scallops, blistered shishito peppers, lamb chops with chimichurri, a burrata that oozed onto the plate.
Mei-Ling ate with a newfound gusto, no longer performing delicate bites. She moaned aloud at the taste of the burrata, and Catriona beamed as if she’d personally made the cheese.
“So,” Catriona said, swirling a glass of rosé. “The inevitable question. What do you do? When you’re not… this.”
Mei-Ling took a sip of water, buying time. “I’m a student. Art history.”
Aidan nodded. It made sense. The careful observation, the appreciation of form.
“And the other work?” Catriona pressed, not unkindly, but with her typical directness.
“Pays the tuition. And the rent. It’s a means to an end.” Mei-Ling shrugged, but her shoulders were tense. “I’m good at compartmentalizing. Or… I was.”
“Until we messed it up,” Aidan said.
A small smile. “Until you messed it up.”
They talked then, not about the night, but about ordinary things. Catriona held forth on the idiotic merger her firm was navigating. Aidan described the frustration of a client who wanted his star chart to promise a lottery win. Mei-Ling told them about her favorite sculptor, her hands moving as she described the negative space in a Moore bronze.
It was easy. Shockingly normal. The kind of conversation you’d have with friends you’d known for years.
The check came. Aidan reached for it, but Catriona was faster, snapping the leather folder shut with a definitive click. “Research grant,” she said, her tone brooking no argument.
Outside, the streetlights had flickered on, casting pools of orange on the damp pavement. The air was cooler. They walked back toward the hotel, not speaking, the sounds of the city wrapping around them. Catriona walked in the middle, linking her arms with both of theirs.
Back in the penthouse suite, the silent, opulent space felt different. The bed was made, the mirrors wiped clean. The evidence of the night was gone, but the memory of it hung in the air, thick and unavoidable.
Their shopping bags from the boulevard were lined up by the door. Catriona kicked off her heels and went to them, pulling out a few more items—a soft cashmere sweater, a pair of jeans. “For tomorrow,” she said, tossing them onto the sofa.
Mei-Ling stood awkwardly in the center of the room, running her hands over the silk of her new dress. The unasked question was loud in the quiet.
Catriona turned, understanding instantly. She walked to Mei-Ling and cupped her face. “The experiment continues,” she said softly. “But the rules are yours tonight. What do you want?”
Mei-Ling’s eyes glistened. She looked from Catriona to Aidan, who had remained by the door, watching, letting Catriona lead. “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered.
“You’re not,” Aidan said, his voice firm from across the room.
Catriona nodded, taking Mei-Ling’s hand. “Then you’re not.” She led her toward the vast bathroom. “First, a bath. Because that river air sticks to you. And then… we’ll see.”
Aidan heard the water begin to run, a rushing, liquid sound. He moved to the window, looking out at the grid of lights below. His reflection in the glass was faint, superimposed over the city. He wasn’t sure who he was looking at—the man from two days ago, or the one here now, waiting for two women to finish a bath he might be invited to join.
He heard laughter from the bathroom, Catriona’s, then Mei-Ling’s, muffled but real. The tightness in his chest loosened, replaced by a slow, warm current of anticipation. The night was beginning again, but it was a different kind of night. The shape of it was unknown, and for once, he was content to let it form itself, moment by moment, in the steam-filled room behind him.