"That was before," I say quietly.
"Before what?"
"Before everything got complicated."
"It was always going to get complicated, Emma." He takes a step closer, and I can smell his cologne, and I have to fight hard not to breathe the intoxicating scent in. "The moment I sat down next to you on that plane, I knew it was going to get complicated. Because you're David's daughter, and I'm twice your age, andI was already half in love with you before we even landed in Florence."
The words steal my breath.
"You—what?"
"I know." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes him look younger. More vulnerable. "Trust me, I know how that sounds. But sitting next to you, listening to you talk about your dreams with so much passion and determination—Emma, you reminded me what it feels like to actually care about something. Not just the next acquisition or the next deal, but something real."
My heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it. "Grant?—"
"I'm not saying that to pressure you." He holds up his hands. "I'm saying it because you need to know that this isn't just about doing the right thing or being a good father to these babies. I care about you. I want to be part of your life. And yes, I'm terrified I'm going to screw it up, but I'm willing to try if you are."
The vulnerability in his voice is almost too much. I've spent so much energy building walls and protecting myself. The idea of letting someone in—really in—feels like stepping off a cliff.
But the alternative is doing this completely alone. And standing here, looking at Grant's face, I realize I don't want to be alone.
I just don’t want to think about what that might cost me.
"I don't know how to do this," I say finally. "I don't know how to let someone help without losing myself."
"Then we'll figure it out as we go." He says it with such certainty, like the fact that neither of us knows what we're doing is just a detail to work through. "One day at a time. And if at any point you feel like I'm taking over, you tell me. Deal?"
It's not a perfect solution. But it's something. A starting point.
"Deal," I whisper.
The relief that crosses Grant's face is so obvious it makes my throat tight. He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. His hand is warm and solid, and I hate how good it feels. How safe.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"For what?"
"For trusting me. For telling me about the babies. For giving me a chance to be part of this."
The gratitude in his voice undoes me completely. Tears prick my eyes, and I blink rapidly, trying to keep them at bay.
"I should probably get home," I say, my voice thick with lack of sleep. "I'm exhausted."
"Let me drive you."
"Grant—"
"I know, I know. You can take the subway yourself. You're perfectly capable." His lips quirk. "But humor me. Please. My driver is two blocks away, and you look like you're about to fall over."
I should refuse. But my feet hurt, and I'm so tired I could cry, and the idea of the subway right now makes me want to curl up on this park bench and never move again.
"Okay," I say.
We walk back to where his car is waiting—a sleek silver Mercedes. The driver opens the door without a word, and I slide onto the butter-soft leather seat.
Grant settles beside me and gives the driver my address. Then we're moving through the city, and I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes.
"Are you feeling okay?" Grant asks, taking my hand again. "Got any nausea?"
