Fuckballs.
“Oh, Miles must’ve mentioned it when he asked me to research gyms for him.” Because I definitely wasn’t stalking your highly curated Insta feed like a creeper. And I for sure didn’t experience a total thrill of satisfaction when the first post in months featured Oreo. “For his New Year’s resolution,” I add.
Nick frowns, a pensive look settling over his features. “Miles hasn’t mentioned joining a gym.”
“You know Miles.” I shrug, avoiding his eyes. “That resolution only lasted a week.”
We finish cleaning before the food arrives, and Nick excuses himself to shower, leaving me to my own devices. I consider stepping out on the balcony to soak up the view, but it’s cool tonight and I don’t have a jacket. Instead, I circle the living room, running my fingers over the back of the couch. The fabric is soft and inviting, but I move on. Much as I’d like to plant my ass on the sofa and kick up my feet, it’s not going to happen.
Not when I’ve got a penthouse to explore.
And if I learn a little something about the occupant, so much the better.
There are stairs to the upper level, but I don’t dare risk it. Not with Nick somewhere up there—naked. With those perfectly round ass cheeks on full display.
Girl, get a grip.
Right. His ass is off-limits.
Shaking off all thoughts of Nick’s superb backside, I wander down the hall, making a quick stop in the laundry room to confirm Oreo is sound asleep on her towel, apparently exhausted from our walk.
Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.
I backtrack to door number one, finding an elegant bathroom with marble counters, contemporary gold fixtures, and the most glorious soaker tub I’ve ever seen. It’s big enough for two, and I’m not going to lie, I’d give my right ovary to climb in and wash away the stress of the last few weeks. The tub at my apartment is small, uncomfortable, and has a questionable stain that doesn’t exactly invite long soaks.
With a sigh, I back out of the bathroom and move on to the next door. It’s pulled mostly shut, but it’s not latched, so I give it a gentle nudge and flip the light switch. It’s a home office.
No surprise there.
Unlike the rest of the condo, this room feels lived in and has Nick stamped all over it. It’s not the gray color scheme but the orderly nature of the desktop with perfect stacks of papers and electronic devices arranged at eye-pleasing angles. Not a pen or Post-it out of place.
I bypass the desk and approach the built-in, which is painted the same shade of charcoal as the walls. The shelves are stuffed with books and framed magazine articles touting Triada’s success, but I ignore those and go right for the colorful photos displayed in a neat row on the second shelf.
The first is a picture of a middle-aged woman posing with three boys—teenagers, really—in front of a modern limestone building. Overhead, the sun shines brightly and each boy beams at the camera, holding up a piece of parchment. I squint closer, just making out the wordsCertificate of Adoption.
Holy crap.
My breath hitches and I reach for the frame, stopping myself just short of picking it up. It’s personal. I have no right to touch it. And Nick will kill me if I leave fingerprints on it.
I study the photo more closely. The entire family is dressed in their Sunday best, and Mrs. Hart—at least, I assume it’s Mrs. Hart—looks as ecstatic as the boys. She has kind eyes and a gentle smile, and it’s clear the trio of boys is her entire world.
My gaze shifts to Nick next. It’s easy to pick him from the group. He stands tall and broad-shouldered compared to Miles and Beck. From the looks of it, the other boys were late bloomers. But not Nick. Even then, he had a killer jawline and a physique that would’ve fueled more than a few teenage fantasies.
And God, that smile. It’s brilliant. All straight white teeth and unfiltered joy.
He should let it out more often.
If only the world could see this side of him.
There are other photos as well. One of the boys huddled around an old desktop computer in what looks to be a dark basement. One of their mother holding up the keys to a McMansion with asoldsign in the front yard. The next is a photo of Nick, Miles, and Beck breaking ground on the Triada campus, each gripping a shovel. The last is a ribbon-cutting ceremony for 2300 Triada, the first building to open its doors on the new campus.
With the progression of time, Nick’s face becomes more somber, his smile less brilliant, until it fades almost entirely.
What brought that change in him?
Running a billion-dollar corporation is bound to take a toll on a person.
That’s probably it, but I can’t shake the feeling it’s something more.
