A rhythm had settled between them, one that hadn’t needed discussion. It almost felt like a life, or the rehearsal for one.
Bea wandered into the kitchen first, hair still damp, the scent of green tea curling into the air, steeping as she read over her notes. Gage would come out from the bedroom around twenty minutes later, dressed, tie slung around his neck, jacket folded over his arm. He always glanced at her mug and then at her plate, checking that she’d eaten something.
“You need more protein,” he murmured one morning, dropping a soft-boiled egg beside her toast before tightening his tie. “Steak tonight. Sweet potatoes. Kale.”
“Are you meal-shaming me, King?”
“Sweetheart,” he said dryly, “you’re anemic.”
She wrinkled her nose, recalling that Gage was her official medical contact now, and that he and her doctor had become allies in the campaign to monitor her iron levels.
He normally drove to his office, but when she’d suggested they could walk, just as she’d been doing from the pool house, he’d agreed without comment. So every morning, they left together. Gage in tailored suits, Bea in work dresses and flats, carrying her heels in her bag. His guards trailed a few paces behind, discreet but always present.
He walked her just outside the Monaghan & Stowe office building, waiting until she was through the gates before turning away.
Bea always came home before him. That part had been awkward at first—returning alone to his penthouse, unsure of where to sit or what she was allowed to touch. She’d even considered staying late at the office just to delay it.
Eventually, she got over it.
She left her coat on the same hook. Dropped her bag in the same chair. Put the kettle on. She still didn’t touch the drawers by the window. Or the shelf where his cufflinks sat. But she’d stopped perching nervously. Now, she spread her things out without apology, like the space had quietly started to belong to her too, half waiting for the click of the door that meant he was home.
Sometimes he came in with his phone still pressed to his ear, deep in a call, mouthinghibefore dropping his keys and loosening his tie, like he hadn’t taken a breath all day.
Other times he came straight to her, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple like he’d been holding the urge all afternoon.
She liked it best when he came home like that.
One evening, Bea was curled up on the couch in one of his sweaters, her bare legs tucked beneath her, watching reality TV on the massive screen in the living room. The sound of the frontdoor clicking shut barely registered—until she heard the soft clink of his car keys and the rustle of his jacket being set aside.
Gage paused midstride. “Married on an Island?”
She kept her face neutral, even as her heart did a gleeful skip at the look on his face. “I’m supporting a friend. It’s on Isabel’s family’s streaming platform.”
Gage glanced at the screen. A woman was sobbing into a coconut drink while yelling something incoherent about emotional sabotage and soulmate betrayal. “You going to tell me you only started watching thisafteryou found out Isabel’s family produces it?”
“No,” she cooed, “but since now Iknowit is, I should definitely keep watching, right?”
“You’re smarter than this,” he said mildly.
“Then sit down and debate it with me.”
He watched for another minute while standing up. “You’re really going to defend a show where a woman just mistook an emu for a llama?”
She patted the seat next to her. “Sit down, King. Or are you scared you’ll get too invested?”
He held her gaze a beat longer. Then, without a word, he sat. A moment passed. Then his arm slid behind her shoulders.
Bea lay her head on his shoulder, smiling to herself. Gage King, whose workdays regularly involved nine-figure decisions and zero downtime, was, at her behest, watching reality TV with her in his penthouse.
Yeah. She was totally sleeping with him tonight.
Saturday morning arrived faster than expected.
GEORGINA: Landed.
GEORGINA: Staying at Hunter’s tonight though FYI.
BEA: What?! I can’t believe you’re choosing your boyfriend over me.
