But he'd dangled the key fob and said, "You can’t take the subway everywhere. And I know you like having your freedom. This gives you that."
And God, he was right. Driving it makes me feel powerful in a way I never expected. Like I belong in his world not because he pulled me into it, but because I've claimed my own space there.
I smile, softening the challenge. "I love that car. I love my freedom. I don’t want to let a few assholes take that away from me."
His jaw works. I watch him wrestle with the instinct to wrap me in protection, to control every variable that might threaten my safety. It's one of the things I love about him, and one of the things that occasionally makes me want to scream.
"You'll text me when you get there," he says finally. Not a question.
"Of course."
"And when you leave."
"Fine."
"And if anything feels off. Anything at all—"
I rise on my toes and kiss him, cutting off the spiral of contingencies. "I'll call you immediately. I promise."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, and I see the effort it costs him to let this go. To trust that I can navigate the world without him beside me.
"All right," he says quietly.
We move to the closet to dress—me in jeans and an oversized white button-down, comfortable clothes for a day at the studio. Nick in one of his sexy, dark suits, with a crisp white shirt that makes his eyes look impossibly blue. I watch him run a hand through his still-damp hair, that carelessly perfect look that makes my pulse quicken even now.
But then I yawn suddenly, wide and unexpected, and have to cover my mouth.
Nick glances over, a small smile playing at his lips. "Tired?"
"Apparently." I yawn again, shaking my head at myself. "I don't know why. I slept well."
"I can think of a few reasons. Five big ones, as I recall."
The smugness in his voice makes me roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. "That must be it."
Strange, though. The fatigue feels disproportionate, a heaviness in my limbs that doesn't quite match how well I slept. Probably just my body still recovering from yesterday's adrenaline crash.
I push the thought aside as we head toward the front of the penthouse.
At the elevator, Nick catches my hand. His fingers thread through mine, and when I look up at him, the intensity in his expression makes my breath catch.
"Tonight," he says, voice low. "I'll be home early. I'll cook for you, and then I'm taking you back to that bedroom, and I'm going to give you five more reasons to be exhausted tomorrow. For starters, that is."
Heat curls through me, settling low and liquid in my belly. "I can hardly wait."
"Me too." He pulls me against him, one hand at the small of my back, and kisses me. His mouth crashes against mine, deep and thorough and consuming, the kind of kiss that makes myknees weak and my fingers curl into the fabric of his suit jacket. By the time he pulls back, we're both breathing harder.
His forehead rests against mine. "Drive safe."
"You too."
One more kiss—quick, fierce—and then he steps into the elevator. The doors close, and he's gone.
I stand in the entryway, my fingers pressed to my lips where I can still feel the heat of him.
Then I cross to the floor-to-ceiling windows and look out over Manhattan. The city sprawls below, morning sun catching glass and steel, millions of lives unfolding in all that chaos and beauty. Yesterday, some of those lives collided with mine in the worst way. Cameras flashing, ugly questions shouted, all that private pain dragged into public light.
The memory surfaces, and I let it. The panic that seized my chest. The way I froze on that sidewalk, certain everyone could see through me to the girl I used to be. The daughter of a convicted killer. The woman who didn't belong.
