"She was." I kiss the top of Claire's head. "But that doesn't mean there isn't room for you. For this. I spent five years hiding, and I'm done hiding."
She turns in my arms to face me. "I'm scared too, you know."
"Of what?"
"Of not being enough. Of you realizing you made a mistake. Of—" She stops, biting her lip. "Of my mom being right about me."
"Your mother is wrong about you," I say firmly. "About all of it. You're not too anything or not enough of anything. You're exactly right."
"You have to say that. You just had sex with me."
"I'm saying it because it's true." I cup her face, make her look at me. "I've watched you for fourteen months, Claire. I know how smart you are, how capable, how strong. I know you work harder than anyone else in that office. I know you care about people even when they don't deserve it. I know—"
"Okay, okay." She's blushing now. "I get it."
"Do you? Because I don't think you do." I pull her closer. "You are extraordinary. And I'm going to spend however long it takes making sure you believe that."
She kisses me instead of answering, slow and sweet, and I let myself sink into it. Into her. Into this impossible, terrifying, wonderful thing we're building.
Room service arrives, and we eat in bed like heathens, trading fries and stealing bites of each other's burgers. It's domestic and easy, and I realize this is what I've been missing—not just sex, but this. Companionship. Laughter. Someone to share meals with.
"Tell me something I don't know about you," Claire says, stealing one of my fries.
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Something real. I know boss Garth. I want to know the actual Garth."
I think about it. "I play piano."
Her eyes widen. "What? Really?"
"My mother made me take lessons as a kid. Hated it then, but after Lena died, I started playing again. Helps me think."
"Will you play for me sometime?"
"Maybe." I steal one of her fries back. "Your turn."
"Okay." She's quiet for a moment. "I'm terrified of flying. Like, white-knuckle panic attack terrified."
"I know. I've flown with you dozens of times."
"And I spent every flight trying to hide it because I didn't want you to think I was weak." She looks down at her plate. "I once ate an entire party-size bag of M&Ms on the Singapore flight just to have something to do with my hands."
The thought of her suffering in silence, trying to maintain some image for me, makes my chest hurt. "You're not weak. You're the strongest person I know."
"I pretend to be. But inside I'm just—" She gestures vaguely. "A mess. Constantly worried I'm not doing enough, not being enough. That one day you'll realize—" She stops.
"Realize what?"
"That I'm replaceable."
"Claire." I set down my food and pull her to face me. "You are not replaceable. You've never been replaceable. Even when I was being an ass and treating you like just an assistant, I knew—" I stop, trying to find the right words. "I knew I'd be lost without you. You make everything work. Not just my schedule or my deals, but—me. You make me work."
She's crying now, and I pull her into my arms, holding her while she lets it out. All the insecurity, all the doubt, all the pain of thinking she wasn't enough.
"I've got you," I murmur into her hair. "I've got you and I'm not letting go."
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are red but she's smiling. "You're very good at this."
