Chapter 5: The Second Invitation
The morning light was a liar. It streamed through the imperfect glass of her studio window, painting cheerful stripes across the futon where they lay, but it did nothing to warm the cold knot of reality tightening in Camille’s stomach. Adam was still asleep, one arm thrown possessively across her waist, his breathing deep and even against her neck. In the quiet, she could study him—the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the gray peppering his stubble, the absolute peace on his face. He looked younger, unguarded. It made her heart ache.
Her phone buzzed on the floor, a cheap plastic rattle against the hardwood. The screen was cracked, a map of her own carelessness. A notification from her banking app glared up at her: low balance alert. The magic of the previous night—the intimate dinner, the confident way she’d taken control of him on this very futon—evaporated like the steam from their abandoned coffee cups. She was a temp who hadn’t worked a shift in three days. He was a man who probably owned the restaurant.
As if sensing her spiral, Adam stirred. His eyes opened, those hazel depths focusing on her immediately. A slow, easy smile spread across his face. “Morning,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. He didn’t move his arm.
“Hi.” Her own voice sounded small.
He propped himself up on an elbow, his gaze sweeping over her face. “You’re thinking too loud. I can hear it from here.”
“It’s just the plumbing,” she deflected, forcing a smile. “This building groans a lot.”
“Mhm.” He leaned in and kissed her shoulder, a simple, warm press of his lips. “I was right about the freckles. They’re everywhere.” His hand slid up her ribcage, a gesture that felt more exploratory than sexual. “What’s the matter?”
She could lie. She was good at it, especially with men who seemed to want a version of her that was perpetually okay. But he was watching her with a focus that felt like being physically held. “I just… I don’t know what this is,” she admitted, the words tumbling out. “The car, the dinner, the… this. I don’t know the rules.”
Adam sighed, a soft exhalation that wasn’t frustration, but something heavier. He rolled onto his back, staring at her exposed bulb ceiling. “There aren’t any rules, Camille.”
“There are always rules.”
“Okay. My rule is I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to be with you.” He turned his head toward her. “Your rule is you get to decide what you want. Even if that’s me putting my very expensive suit back on and getting in that car and leaving you to your Saturday.”
The plainness of it, the giving of choice, was more disarming than any grand declaration. “It’s not that I want you to leave.”
“Good.” He sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. The previous night’s confidence in her own body faltered under the daylight scrutiny of his torso, the lean muscle, the faint scar along his side. He reached for his watch on the floor, its face glinting. “I have a conference call at eleven. With Singapore. Which means I should be in my home office, not…”
“Not in a futon in Brooklyn,” she finished for him, sitting up and pulling the sheet to her chest.
“Not somewhere I’d rather be,” he corrected gently. He stood, naked and unselfconscious, and began gathering his clothes. The ritual of it—the pulling on of tailored trousers, the fastening of the belt, the crisp white shirt—was like watching him reassemble his armor piece by piece. The man from last night was being sealed away.
She watched from the bed, feeling suddenly very bare. “Adam?”
He was buttoning his cuffs. “Yes?”
“What was your wife like?”
His hands stilled. The room got very quiet. She regretted it instantly, a clumsy grenade tossed into their fragile peace. He didn’t look angry, though. He looked measured.
“She was… a lot like me,” he said finally, returning to his cuffs. “Ambitious. Polished. Excellent at planning charity galas and predicting market shifts.” He picked up his suit jacket, gave it a slight shake. “We were a perfect, sealed unit. And then we hated each other with the same precision we’d once used to love each other.” He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “Why do you ask?”
Camille shrugged, the sheet slipping. “Trying to understand the blueprint, I guess. So I know what not to do.”
A genuine laugh escaped him, short and surprised. “You couldn’t be more different from her if you tried. That’s the whole point.” He walked over, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. “Don’t overthink the blueprint. The building’s already fallen down.”
He finished dressing, and the transformation was complete. Adam Whitmore, investment mogul, stood in her cluttered studio. He fished his phone from his jacket, thumb flying across the screen. “Car’s five minutes out.” He paused, looking around. “Can I take you out Tuesday? A movie. Something normal. No cars, unless you want the subway.”
The offer was so deliberately mundane it melted the rest of her anxiety. “A movie sounds… really good.”
“Good.” He pocketed his phone. He was at the door, then he stopped, turning back. He strode to the futon, crouched down in front of her, and took her face in his hands. He kissed her, properly, deeply, a reclaiming of the night’s territory. “You were magnificent last night,” he murmured against her lips, his words a private, heated secret. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
The apartment felt enormous in his absence. She smelled his cologne on her sheets. She heard the distant purr of a town car pulling away.
She got up, wrapping the sheet around her like a toga, and padded to the kitchen. The remains of their rushed morning coffee sat in two chipped mugs. Next to hers, he had left a single hundred-dollar bill, folded neatly into a small, thick square.
A hot wave of humiliation washed over her. Was this what he thought? She snatched it up, ready to crumble it, when she saw the faint writing on the inside. He’d unfolded it and used a pen. In crisp, small capitals, it read: FOR THE PHONE. GET THE SCREEN FIXED. A.
She stared at it. It wasn’t payment. It was observation, followed by a stubborn, solution-oriented care. It was him, in paper form. She smoothed the bill out on the counter, her throat tight. From the window, she could see the bridge. She wondered if his car was on it yet, speeding back toward Manhattan.
Her own phone buzzed again. A text. From Adam.
Forgot to say. The shirt from last night. The blue one. Keep it. It looks better on your floor than in my closet.
She looked at the crumpled silk still tangled in her sheets. A trophy. A flag. A promise.
She texted back, her fingers trembling slightly. What if I want to wear it?
The reply came almost instantly. Even better.