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Probably, but if I’m honest with myself, I never considered that. The roller coaster that he’s taken me on so far has been wrapped up in luxury—our sex apartment, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and spectacular view; his own home, with its sleek decor and well-stocked kitchen.
I didn’t consider that our new relationship meant letting him into my place too. I figured he just wouldn’t want to see it.
But as I step through the front door and welcome him inside, and he begins to poke around, I realize that there’s no derision in his expression. It’s all curiosity.
He seems interested in my life. He didn’t come here to make fun of me, or to investigate for proof that I’m not worthy.
I run back to my room to grab my phone, and he looks through the photos on my bookshelf. I walk back out to see him holding my favorite—a shot of my mom and dad, laughing and holding each other, at Lake Tahoe.
“Are these your parents?” Declan asks.
“Yeah,” I say, slipping my phone into my purse.
He sets the photo back down on the shelf. The gentleness of the action touches me—he knows it’s important, and he’s treating it, and me, with the utmost care.
He really is all in. I can feel the heat in my cheeks, and know I must be blushing. Tactfully, Declan doesn’t mention it.
When we step out into the hallway, I spot Reagan at the opposite end. She’s carrying two brown paper bags filled with groceries under her arms—groceries she’ll have to eat by herself, since Declan keeps insisting on feeding me.
Her eyes practically bug out of her head when she sees the two of us, and I remember suddenly that I haven’t had a chance to update her on what’s going on.
I try—and fail—to suppress my laugh. Declan tactfully ignores this too.
As we walk past Reagan, she leans over to whisper in my ear, “Oh, we need to talk, Soph.”
I nod in acknowledgement. Yeah, we probably do.
I follow Declan out to the car, and he holds the side door open for me, ushering me inside.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask as his driver peels away from the curb by my apartment. I marvel at the quiet purr of the engine and the vehicle’s smooth ride. “I want to make sure I’m dressed right for this.”
It was difficult to dress myself. Declan may be rich, but he’s also hard to predict. With my luck, I’d wear something extravagant and we’d end up going to his favorite burger joint. In the end, I settled on a little black dress—the most versatile item in my wardrobe. Nothing too outlandish, but still sophisticated enough for a nice restaurant.
“Nowhere over the top,” he promises. “I would’ve given you some forewarning. It’s a place on the Upper East Side. Delano’s. Have you heard of it?”
I shake my head. “I’m from out of town, remember?”
“You’ve been here for a while.”
“Not long enough to be taking myself out for nice dinners on the Upper East Side,” I say with a laugh, and Declan smiles.
When we arrive at the restaurant, he once again insists on opening the door for me. I step outside of the car, he takes my hand, and we venture inside. The restaurant is dimly lit and elegant, with candles in small glass jars scattered over the tables. At the host’s stand, Declan leans in to whisper to the host, as if they’re sharing some kind of dark secret. The host nods, pushing up his glasses and examining a list of some kind, then beckons over another man in a suit.
“Right this way, sir,” says our new host.
He leads us to a private table behind a curtain—small, for two, with the same candle as all of the others and a placard on its surface that reads reserved. An ice-cold bottle of San Pellegrino sits between two spotless glasses.
As we sit down, I realize that this is Declan’s money in action—and it’s not at all what I expected. This must be the main way he uses his wealth. Rather than extravagant clothes and helicopters and ritzy getaways, he buys his privacy. Avoiding the spotlight to make his life easier.
Declan is a man who likes nice things, that’s always been clear. But he’s not ostentatious with his wealth like many rich people I’ve seen in this city. He doesn’t want to put on some grand display.
He thanks the host, and we settle into our secluded nook of the restaurant.
“So,” I say, “is this the kind of place you always take girls on dates?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t really go on dates,” he admits. “Never was one for that sort of thing.”
Despite knowing enough not to be surprised, I’m still floored by this. A man like this one, trim and polished and suave, with all of the money in the world—and he doesn’t go out? I pick my jaw up off the floor and lean forward on the table, twining a strand of my hair on my forefinger.
