Page 90 of Reckless Devotion

He turns his head to give Chase the same look. My cheeks burn at the unexpected spotlight on something I’m not ready to admit, to myself or anyone else.

“Don’t waste any time, my boy. My biggest regret in life is not having those extra years with her.” The two men share such a tender moment that I avert my gaze to my knees.

Heat erupts all across my body, causing perspiration to cling to my skin. It would be great if the ground would swallow me up right about now. Or perhaps if I took a running jump, I could pole-vault myself directly out of that window over there with Mr. Clay’s cane?

“Thank you for sharing that with us, Terrence,” Chase replies quietly.

“Yes!” I slap my knees and stand abruptly, itching to get the fuck out of here so I can crawl into the wall space and pretend I don’t exist. “Thank you, Mr. Clay, but I really must get going, I have to…” I trail off, patting my pockets like a mad woman and glancing around at the floor to make sure nothing fell out of them while I was sitting—just for something to do. “Yes, right then,” I finish decisively, avoiding eye contact as Ioffer the two men an awkward little head nod and stride for the door. “I’ll see you both later.”

Chapter 32

PEPPER

“I have a meeting this afternoon, but I thought we could work from here this morning?”

The industrial freight elevator rattles as it carries me and Chase up to the top floor of a remodeled Tribeca warehouse.

I peel back the sleeve of my shirt to check the time. “Where is here?”

The air feels heavy after my impromptu exit last night, and I’m finding it rather difficult to look at him.

“My apartment.”

My gaze bounces to his, stomach squirming. This shouldn’t be cause for alarm, he’s been to my place a handful of times after all, but somehow being in his personal space feels daunting. He lifts one eyebrow in silent question, but I keep my mouth shut and turn to face the doors again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Despite the swirling sensation in my gut, I almost laugh. “Am I really that transparent?”

“To me? Kinda.” I slide my eyes sideways to see him smiling at me.

The tension is cut when the doors slide open, and my attention is pulled away by his large loft-conversion apartment spread out in front of us.

“Wow,” I breathe, taking a step forward and gazing up at the soaring thirteen-foot ceilings threaded with exposed steel ductwork and original timber beams darkened with age.

So this is where one of the city’s biggest billionaires calls home. It’s way more modest than I would have expected. I mean, notthatmodest considering this area must go for a hefty buck, but I had always pictured him living in a glitzy high-rise penthouse, or perhaps a grand house on the outskirts with a private tennis court. You get the gist, something with chandeliers and velvet drapes.

Instead he has a kitchen tucked into one corner of the open-plan space, a pool table…a fucking vintage Pac-Man arcade machine, and a large L-shaped couch before a short corridor dotted with oversized pivot doors.

“This building used to be a wool mill in the early nineteen hundreds.” He steps into the apartment beside me, his polished shoes hitting the dark glossed floorboards.

I rub my hand along the exposed red brick by the elevator, feeling the rough material scuff my palm, and take a moment to imagine what these walls have seen. How smog and dusky light from the Industrial Revolution might have poured in from the windows, lighting up the two structural cast-iron columns that flank the space.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Be sure to tell that to my mother next time you see her.” He kicks off his shoes beside the door and flings his suit jacket onto the kitchen island. “She thinks this place is a tasteless bachelor pad.”

“I mean, considering you have a basketball net on the wall over there, I’d have to agree with the bachelor pad part.” I laugh, turning to face him. “But it’s not tasteless, this building has so much character.”

He pulls two water bottles from the large steel refrigerator and walks over to hand me one, warmth splashing his features. I take the bottle, my heart beating a little faster as he lifts his vacant hand to brush the backs of his knuckles down my cheek.

“Are you okay?”

I’m not sure how to answer that question. On the one hand, I hadn’t realized how burnt out I’d been before the Hamptons, juggling a high-pressure job, figuring out how to be a guardian, and trying to satiate that ever thrumming need to create a bit more balance in this fucked-up world. A big part of me feels more relaxed than I have in years, but there is also this jiggling part of me that is fighting back against whatever this thing is between us.

“Unsure,” I say truthfully.

“Okay.” He twists off the cap and takes a pull of water. “What can I do to help?”