“For the moment, I am, thank you. Now what do you wear?”
“No idea. Faulker buys that shit, and I give him money.”
She pulls the blanket close, and then she sniffs it. “Hermès.”
I arch a brow. “You’re guessing.”
She shakes her head, still holding the blanket. “No. I know.”
She looks up at me, eyes sharp again, present in a way that tells me she’s steadier than she was five minutes ago. “It smells clean first. Not bright-clean. Dry. Like citrus scraped against stone. Bitter orange, maybe. Like heat on concrete after rain.”
I stay quiet.
“Then itsettles. Wood. Spice. Earth. Not heavy. Grounded. Like it’s meant to stay close to the body, not announce itself.” Her fingers tighten slightly in the fabric. “It works for you because you care about well-made clothes, about how things fit, about function, and of course, restraint.”
I snort softly. “Do I?”
“You do, you just don’t call it fashion.” She looks me over. “It’s your armor. Same as your SUV. Big, solid, practical, intimidating. Nothing flashy, built to take impact and keep moving.”
That one lands.
“And,” she finishes, “it smells like someone who expects the world to hit hard and plans accordingly. I rage-stalked you, too.”
“You’re unsettling,” I tell her.
She smiles faintly. “You’re predictable.”
“I’m sorry you lost your mother,” I tell her, honestly. “You clearly miss her if you keep her with you every day.”
“Thank you.” She’s quiet and then, in typical Sofie fashion, she’s not. “And what else are you sorry for?”
There’s no sense in picking a fight to stay comfortable, especially not when she’s had something happen tonight that landed her in a place I’m sure she never wanted to be.
“You’re not your sisters,” I state.
“What?” she giggles, the surprised kind, and then confused.
“I may have put you in a category you don’t belong in, but they seem to soak up. Their nepotism is very loud, whereas you,” I shake my head. “You’re not them.”
“You have no idea.” She says, covering her face. When her phone’s messenger chirps, she pulls the covers away and sits up, “Shit.”
I push out of bed and grab her coat, pull her phone from its pocket, and see the name James on the screen. “What’s your password?”
“Oh, hell no,” she snatches it, and I allow her to.
“You didn’t want him to pick you up; you were frightened of him.” I remind her… firmly.
“I just,” She shakes her head as she taps out a text. “He’s fine. He’s been my driver since I finished college. He’s ex-military and,” she drops her phone on the bed and flops back, clearly comfortable. “I am not going to live a life thinking everyone is out to get me. No matter what.”
“Are you fucking him?” I ask and wish I hadn’t.
“Am I what?” She sits up and doesn’t wait for me to redirect the question. “I sure hope not, his husband would be pissed.” She shakes her head. “I trust him, and I trust Matteo and?—”
“Who’s Matteo?”
“My Dad’s oldest friend. And before you ask. I’m not fucking him either.” She scrunches up her nose. “Eww, you are so gross for even thinking that.”
“I didn’t say a?—”
