Chapter 3: The Morning After
The silence lasted until dawn. Adam slept in fits, the imprint of her cold weight against his chest dissolving into strange, fevered dreams. He woke to the smell of coffee.
Not his own. His was a single, efficient pod, bitter and black. This was richer, deeper, the scent of freshly ground beans blooming through the penthouse. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and walked barefoot across the cool oak flooring.
She was in his kitchen.
The morning light cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the marble island in stripes of gold. Holland stood with her back to him, humming something tuneless. She wore one of his white dress shirts. It hung to mid-thigh, the cuffs rolled to her elbows. Her long legs were bare, her feet tucked into a pair of his wool socks that she’d pilfered from the basket by the door.
Adam stopped in the doorway. “How did you get in?”
She turned, not startled. A slow, cautious smile touched her lips. In the harsh morning light, without makeup, she looked younger. The artifice was sandblasted away, leaving something almost genuine. Or a brilliant facsimile.
“The doorman. Marco? He remembered me from last night. I told him I left my phone charger here and you were still asleep. He’s very sweet.” She lifted a mug. “Coffee? I found your beans. They’re actually good.”
“You lied to my doorman.”
“I omitted.” She set the mug down and turned fully, leaning against the counter. She’d buttoned the shirt, but the top two were open, revealing the sharp line of her collarbones. “Look, Adam. About last night.” She swallowed, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I was way out of line. I’m sorry. Really. I was… scared. And stupid. And the city is so loud, and my dorm is this tiny, gross box, and I freaked out. I acted like a total slut.”
She said the word with a blunt, shocking casualness that made him flinch.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” she continued, looking up through her lashes. “But my dad would kill me if he knew I messed this up. And you’re… you’re family. Kind of. Can we just pretend I didn’t completely humiliate myself? I promise I can be good. Let me make it up to you.”
“How?”
“Breakfast.” She gestured to the stove where a pan sat, a stick of butter softening inside. “I’m a surprisingly decent cook. No funny business. Just… eggs. Toast. A ceasefire.”
He studied her. The plea in her eyes seemed raw. The memory of her cold, calculating stare on the elevator warred with this picture of morning-after regret. The familial obligation Ronnie had shackled him with tugged hard. Maybe she had just been scared. Maybe the performance on the roof was a panic move, a kid in over her head.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he said flatly.
A blush crept up her neck. “My dress was still wet. It’s in your dryer. I hope that’s okay.” She picked up the coffee mug again and held it out to him, a peace offering. “One breakfast. Then I’ll go back to my box and be a good student. Scout’s honor.”
He took the mug. Their fingers didn’t touch. “I don’t have any bacon.”
“I saw. Vegan?”
“Selective.”
“We’ll work with it.” The relief on her face seemed palpable. She turned back to the stove, her movements becoming purposeful. “Sit. It’ll be five minutes.”
He took a stool at the island, watching her. She moved with an easy, practiced grace, cracking eggs one-handed into a bowl, whisking them with a fork. The shirt shifted with her movements, gaping slightly at the back. She was, undoubtedly, naked beneath it.
“Class today?” he asked, sipping the coffee. It was perfect.
“Mm, later. Art History. Thrilling.” She shot him a quick grin over her shoulder. “See? I know my schedule.”
The butter sizzled as she poured the eggs in. She grabbed a spatula, her brow furrowed in concentration. It was a convincing act of domesticity. The city glinted outside, a silent witness.
“Listen,” she said, not turning around. “About the whole ‘sugar daddy’ thing. That was just… trash talk. Miami bravado. I don’t actually know how to be that person. I was trying to sound hard.”
“You sounded proficient.”
She shrugged, a ripple of fabric. “Google.” She reached down, opening a lower cabinet to search for a plate. She bent at the waist, the hem of the shirt riding up. The exposure was brief, deliberate. The back of her thighs, the curve of her ass, a flash of black lace before she straightened, a plain white plate in hand.
She turned, placed the perfectly folded omelet onto the plate, added toast from the rack, and slid it toward him. Her expression was open, innocent. “See? Just breakfast.”
He ate. It was excellent. They made light, brittle conversation about the traffic, a show she’d binge-watched, the peculiar smell of the dorm hallway. She nursed a glass of orange juice, perched on the stool opposite him, knees tucked up. She seemed, for all the world, like a chastened niece.
When he was done, she took his plate. “So,” she said, washing it in the sink. “Truce?”
“Truce.”
“Good.” She dried her hands on a towel. “Because I have a tiny, minuscule favor to ask. And it’s not for money.”
Here it comes, he thought. The hook.
“My dorm is having some kind of pest control fumigation this weekend. They’re kicking everyone out from Friday to Sunday. It’s gross. I could get a hotel, but…” She bit her lip. “Could I maybe crash here? Just on the couch? Two nights. I’ll be invisible. You won’t even know I’m here.”
The request hung in the air. Reasonable. Plausible. A test.
“The couch is Italian leather. It’s not a bed.”
“I’ve slept on worse.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the island, her chin in her hands. The shirt collar fell open. “Please, Adam. I’ll buy my own food. I’ll study. It’s just two nights. After last night, I just… I don’t want to be alone in some strange hotel.”
He saw the trap, but its edges were softened by her performance, by the excellent eggs, by the inconvenient tug of responsibility. Denying her a couch felt petty, cruel. A self-fulfilling prophecy where he became the villain she could justify manipulating.
“Friday and Saturday night,” he said, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. “You’re gone Sunday morning. You stay out of my office. You don’t touch the thermostat. And you actually go to your classes.”
The smile that broke across her face was dazzling, utterly victorious. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.” She came around the island, and for a heart-stopping second he thought she might hug him. Instead, she just picked up his empty coffee mug. “I’m going to get my dress and get out of your hair. Have a good day at… whatever it is you do.”
She padded toward the laundry room, the socks whispering on the floor. At the doorway, she paused, looked back. The morning light haloed her, making the white shirt almost translucent. “Oh, and Adam? The shirt’s kind of sweaty now. From cooking. I’ll wash it and bring it back this weekend.”
She disappeared.
He sat in the sudden quiet, the taste of eggs and butter and expertly brewed coffee turning to ash in his mouth. He looked at the spot where she’d stood, at the faint smudge of a footprint on the polished floor. He had just agreed to let the wolf sleep in the foyer, believing its promise to be a lamb.
The city outside no longer looked like a kingdom. It looked like a chessboard, and she had just advanced her queen, smiling all the while.