Page 37 of Clock Strikes Paradise

I was pretty sure she just called me an asshole in very polite language, but I let the subject drop. Her hand was soft and warm within mine, and I enjoyed brushing my thumb over the back of it.

“Tell me about your family, how you grew up in Pennsylvania,” I said.

She turned her gaze to the distant horizon, hesitating. “Millbrook is a small town. Nothing special.” Her voice was soft, almost distant, as if she were revisiting a world far removed from the luxury surrounding us. Something in her tone, a guarded note I hadn't heard before, sparked my curiosity.

“Tell me more,” I urged, squeezing her hand gently.

With a line between her brows, she began to speak. Snippets of a childhood filled with more responsibility than carefree days emerged—a family struggling to make ends meet, a loving but often absent father who chased one get rich quick scheme after another, a mother who worked tirelessly as a seamstress to provide for them. She talked about missing school events and activities, about yearning for things she couldn't have.

“I learned to depend on myself,” she said quietly, her gaze still fixed on the distant horizon. “I had to. There were no fairy godmothers in Millbrook.”

“So you don't believe in fairy tales?” I asked, a teasing lilt in my voice.

Her gaze snapped to mine, her dark blue eyes intense. “No,” she said,her voice firm. “I don't.”

I studied her face, her expression a mix of defiance and something else I couldn’t quite decipher. “I get the feeling there’s more to the story,” I said, my curiosity piqued.

Elise was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the gentle rhythm of the waves lapping against the shore. Then she took a deep breath and began to tell me about a resin angel she’d brought on the trip. A memento she’d carried with her for years, though it was anything but a happy memory. She recounted the story of her father’s broken promise, of the bowling ball that arrived instead of the crystal cat, of her mother’s quiet strength, and the gift of the angel.

“It’s a reminder to make my own dreams come true,” she said, her voice softening. “And not wait around for happy endings to be handed to me.”

I processed her story as we reached the end of the beach and the kayak kiosk. As we turned around and headed back, the gentle rhythm of the waves formed a soothing backdrop to her words. I was struck by her strength, by her determination to forge her own path. I pictured her as a young girl in that small Pennsylvania town, dreaming of a life beyond its borders. A life she’d created for herself, through sheer grit and hard work.

A fierce protectiveness surged through me, a desire to shield her from the disappointments, the hardships she’d faced, all while acknowledging her raw ability and desire to succeed. I found myself wanting to give her everything she'd ever wanted, to smooth her path, to see her dreams realized. I wanted to be the one to show her that happy endings weren’t just for fairy tales. That maybe… they could exist in the real world too.

The intensity of these foreign emotions—protective, possessive, even tender—alarmed me.

What the hell is happening to me?

I needed to regain control, to reassert the boundaries I'd carefully erected around myself. “You’ve done remarkably well,” I said, pleased with how steady my voice sounded. “You’ve built a successful life for yourself, and I admire you for it.”

Her hand was still nestled in mine, her fingers delicate yet strong. Despite my attempt to distance myself, I couldn't resist the urge to reassure her, to soothe the sadness that lingered in her eyes. My thumb gently stroked her knuckles, a gesture that surprised me as much as it probably did her.

A grateful smile touched her lips. “Thank you. But I’m no Cinderella. My fairy tale involves a killer resume, not a glass slipper.”

Her gentle humor eased the tension that had coiled in my chest. I found myself smiling back, and maybe those self-imposed walls of mine were cracking a little with every shared word, every stolen glance, every touch.

“I’m sorry you had it so rough,” I said, my voice soft. “My own childhood was… a very different story.”

Elise tilted her head, her expression curious. “Different how?”

“My parents weren't wealthy,” I explained, “But they were supportive. My family home was warm and welcoming, and we were comfortably well-off. They encouraged my ambitions, even when those ambitions meant missing family dinners or spending weekends buried in textbooks. They understood my drive, my need to achieve.”

“Lucky you,” Elise said, her voice light. “I think my mom was terrified by how driven I was. Like it was something unnatural. She wanted me to find a nice, stable job close to home and settledown.”

“They even converted our basement into a home office for me when I was fifteen,” I continued, a smile touching my lips at the memory. “It wasn’t much, but it was my sanctuary, my space to create, to strategize, to dream.”

“A teenage boy’s dream come true,” Elise teased. “Unlimited computer access, no annoying siblings barging in to bug you…”

“Exactly,” I said, laughing at the thought of Nate invading my carefully ordered space. Even then, I’d thrived on structure and solitude, qualities my parents seemed to recognize instinctively.

“And you just channeled all that energy into building your empire,” she said, her voice tinged with a trace of awe. “It’s an amazing accomplishment.”

Elise’s simple compliment filled me with satisfaction, more than any award or bank balance. “Harvard changed everything. That’s where I really came into my own, surrounded by people who were just as driven, just as ambitious, as I was. That’s where I developed the confidence to believe I could achieve anything. To take risks.”

She remained silent but squeezed my hand as a warm wave splashed over our feet.

“I started my first company while I was there,” I continued, the gentle breeze ruffling through my hair. “It was a software company, a new approach to data analysis, and it took off like a rocket. Three years later, I sold it for a ridiculous amount of money. I haven’t looked back since.”