“I'm making sandwiches for Tank. He's a person, not a detail.”
“I know that. It's just—“ He stops, runs a hand through his wet hair. “You do this with everyone.”
“Do what?”
“Make them feel like they matter. Like they're not just...” He gestures vaguely. “Hired help.”
I set down the knife. “They're not hired help. They're people doing jobs that make our lives easier. The least I can do is learn their names and ask if they want lunch.”
Kai crosses to me, movements careful on his healing ankle, presses a kiss to my temple.
“I don't deserve you,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Probably not.” I let my hair loose to cover my flushed cheeks. “You're stuck with me anyway.”
He laughs, soft and warm, and steals a slice of cheese from the cutting board.
I bring Tank his sandwich. He takes it with a nod that carries more warmth than his usual grunt.
“Rhodes is a lucky man,” he says.
“I'll remind him of that next time he argues about taking his medicine.”
Tank’s lips twitch before settling back into his stern expression. “If you need anything, I'm downstairs. Got some new equipment coming in this afternoon. Security upgrade for the service entrance.”
“Thank you, Tank.”
He heads for the elevator, sandwich in hand. I watch him go, this mountain of a man who checks the locks twice and notices when a dancer's arm is drawn wrong.
Kai appears in the doorway. “Should I be jealous?”
“Absolutely.” I grin at his expression. “He complimented my poster.”
“I compliment your posters.”
“You say 'that's nice, babe' while checking your email.”
“I can multitask.”
I throw a dish towel at him. He catches it, laughing. Something warm blooms in my chest. This is what I wanted. What I didn't know I was looking for when I moved to Silverpoint. Not the penthouse or the man with more money than I could imagine. This. The easy laughter. The routine. The feeling of being home. Of being wanted.
Kai has a video call with his lawyers at two, so I set up at the dining table with my laptop and sketchpad. Marie's poster is almost done. A dancer mid-leap, colors bleeding from warm orange into deep purple, other dancers in the background, the title of the show arcing across the top in hand-lettered script.
My phone buzzes. A text from Clio, one of the artists Marie sent my way.
Clio: Emma! The flyers look AMAZING. My gallery showing got twice the usual turnout. Everyone asked who did the design. I gave them your info. Hope that's okay?
I type back.
Me: More than okay. Thank you!
Another text, this one from Derek, a street musician who needed help with his album cover.
Derek: Got three new gig bookings since I started using the promo materials you made. You're a miracle worker.
I'm smiling at my phone when Kai's voice drifts from the study. Muffled through the closed door, but raised. Frustrated.
I can't make out the words, but the tone says enough.
