“So, have you always lived here?”
I nod once. “Since I was thirty. Bought the building, gutted the penthouse, rebuilt it, sold off the units below.”
Her eyes widen. “You own the entire building?”
“Yes.”
She lets out a low whistle and shoves a bite of salmon into her mouth, chews, and swallows. “Of course you do.”
“Surprised?” I ask, taking a sip of wine.
“The opposite.”
Our conversation develops slowly. She asks me how my father and I built the company, why it includes the Bartley’s when I’m no longer married to one, and other family questions, including how I am the last Voss. I give her brief, factual answers, sticking to safe ground. I do not mention the history with my ex-wife or the coffin with two names from one flight manifest.
“I was considering quitting,” she says quietly, “before all this.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “Why?”
Her lips quirk at the side. “You,” she says plainly, as if that explains everything. “I couldn’t have, though. Not really.”
“Why?” I find myself asking again. The part of me that shouldn’t pry or care starts flaring to life. “If I’m honest, April, you’re well-qualified and have plenty of experience. You could have gone somewhere else.”
She shakes her head, chewing. “You pay more than most in the city.” She shrugs. “And I don’t have any savings. Well, at least I didn’t before now…so I wouldn’t have been able to handle the interim between jobs.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re twenty-eight. You don’t have savings? Is it because of student loans, or…?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Okay, first, it’s not that crazy for someone my age not to have been able to save money nowadays,” she says, pointing her fork at me accusingly. “And second, no. My student loans aren’t too bad. Most of my money was going to my sister. Still is.”
My brows lift. “Why?”
April shrugs, her blouse shifting. “Her daughter’s sick. Like, really sick. Cancer-adjacent. Histiocytosis. Angela’s basically been drowning in medical bills for the last year. She can’t really work while taking care of Ava, so I’ve been giving her almost half of my paychecks.” She pushes the food around on her plate. “Her insurance barely covers anything. I didn’t know how I was going to keep helping since things were just going up in price.”
I set my fork down, my throat suddenly too tight to eat anything.
“But then I sent that stupid text to you by mistake, and you offered…this,” she says, her gaze meeting mine again. “Don’t get me wrong, I did it partly for myself, and I don’t think I’d have been able to resist even if circumstances were different. But mostly, it wasn’t about wanting to sleep with you. I’m givingAngela as much as she needs from what you’re paying me. It’s about them.”
The words hit harder than they should, and a pulse of something sharp radiates through my chest. Of course she’s doing this for someone else; of course she’s that kind of woman.
I’ve no idea what to say to that. I take a breath and force the emotion down, fast and deep. I can’t afford to sit in it, not when this was never meant to be personal. “My driver will take you home once we’re finished,” I say instead, entirely changing the subject. I can not engage with what she has just confessed to me. I can’t get involved. So, I say something bland and off-topic. “Moving forward, you can use him instead of the subway.”
She flinches a little. It’s subtle, but I catch it. “Okay.”
I set my napkin down on the table and chug the last few dregs of wine. Then I push my chair back and stand up. Nodding toward the hallway, I say, “Come on.”
She blinks at me, but she gets up and follows. No arguments, no jokes, no deflection.
I can still feel the ache in my chest when I get her to the bedroom. I can still hear her words replaying in my head when I’m inside her. And I know, deep down, it’ll stick with me, and I won’t be able to forget about that. I’ll carry it in silence because that’s the deal. Whatever this is, it doesn’t get to be more than that, for both our sakes.
Chapter 15
April
“Idon’t know, Nicky,” I say, peeling the label off my ginger ale. “He’s my boss, and literally my own personal orgasm dispenser. I don’t think I’m in danger of catching feelings.”
Nicky gives me a look. “Right. Because calling someone yourorgasm dispenseris a totally normal, emotionally neutral phrase.”
I grin into my sleeve, even as my stomach twists. We’re on the couch in my apartment, some reality show playing low on the TV, but neither of us watching it. She’s got one leg tucked under her, arms crossed, and she hasn’t touched her wine that’s sitting on the coffee table. She’s been suspicious of me for weeks now, and I can’t blame her.
