I try not to blush and focus on the cool glass of iced tea sweating on the table beside me—lemon slices floating lazily. "Well," I start, setting my iPad down.
"All Elena’s suggestions sound lovely, but I still have a soft spot for the Affair in the Garden idea. It's simple, ties into the estate's grounds so naturally, and... it just feels right."
“I agree,” Frances says firmly.
Elena tilts her head and jots a note on her legal pad with a sleek Montblanc pen, the scratch of it soft against the paper.
"I agree. Good choice. It’s the classic choice. It’s romantic and whimsical. We can amp it up with interactive elements for a subtle nod to intrigue."
Frances smiles faintly, her eyes on me with that perceptive glint, like she sees more than I let on. "Affair in the Garden it is, then. We’re supporting the Orphaned Starfish Foundation this year, right? They've been doing wonderful work with orphaned children across New York and beyond, and I hope we can raise more than enough for them.”
I nod, picking up my iced tea. “I hope so too,” I say. “I'll help with whatever you and Dora need, Frances—the invitations, coordinating the auction items.”
Frances smiles at me, a real one that crinkles the corners of her eyes. "You're doing a great job with this, Carolyn," she says softly, her voice carrying a note of surprise mixed with genuine warmth. Her hand reaches out to pat mine briefly, frail but steady. "I have to admit, it's been a pleasure working together like this. You've got a real knack for pulling it all together."
I feel a warmth bloom in my chest, not just from her words but from the way she says them, like she's seeing me—really seeing me—and it tugs at something deep, that orphan ache I've carried forever, making my throat tighten a bit. "Thanks,Frances," I murmur, squeezing her hand back gently, the paper between us rustling. "It means a lot. I just want it to be perfect—for the kids, for everyone."
“Now it’s time for us to sort through the invitation mockups,” Elena says brightly, producing a stack of thick cream cardstock embossed with gold foil vines that catch the light.
And that is the moment my phone buzzes on the table, a sharp vibration that cuts through the quiet. I glance down, heart skipping as Blake's name lights up the screen.
The text is simple:
A colleague invited us to join him and his wife for dinner tonight. Vibe is casual. Are you in?
I stare at it, a mix of excitement and nerves fluttering in my stomach - dinner with his colleague. This is surprising, but it is a chance to spend time with him outside the house, so despite my nervousness, I choose not to decline.
Chapter Forty-Five
BLAKE
Ilean against the edge of my desk, but it does nothing to steady the weird churn in my gut—like I've just jumped off a ledge without checking for a net first.
The office feels too quiet now, the hum of the city far below muffled by the thick glass. I rise to my feet and can’t believe how nervous I am, my heart thudding a little too hard against my ribs as I pull out my phone again, thumb hovering over the screen like it's some kind of bomb.
Inviting us on their date night? What the hell was I thinking? I can’t believe though that me, the guy who closes multimillion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat feels this off-kilter over a simple dinner, but here I am, pacing to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the Hudson glittering under the afternoon sun, the water choppy with ferry wakes, while my mind races. Asking her out makes me feel exposed, like peeling back a layer I didn't know was there, vulnerable in a way I haven't been since... hell, maybe ever.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. I check the phone again, even though it's only been a second since I sent the text. The words stare mockingly back at me.
Casual?
Yeah, right, like anything with her feels casual anymore, not after the way she's been slipping under my skin, making me crave these moments that feel weirdly stolen. As if the clock will strike twelve and she will turn back to the cold, manipulative bitch she was before she came back from her surgeries.
No response yet. The wait drags. Each second stretching as I watch a barge crawl along the river below, my reflection faint in the glass—tie slightly loosened, jaw tense. Vulnerable, that's the word that keeps circling, like admitting I want this night out to expose how much she's got me hooked, how I'm not in control like I used to be.
Then the phone buzzes in my hand, the vibration of it jolts through me like electricity. I swipe it open fast, heart kicking up as her reply pops up:
Sure, sounds fun. What time?
Just that, simple and agreeing, but relief floods me so hard. I lean heavily against the window, as excitement bubbles up underneath. I feel like a kid getting a yes response to a first date. Ridiculous but undeniably wonderful. I type back quickly:
7 at La Grande Boucherie in Midtown. I'll meet you there.
As I press send, it hits me harder. I'm in more trouble than I realize. This isn't just an attraction anymore; it's deeper, pulling me in ways I can't ignore, making me want to chase this feeling, this version of us that's alive and electric.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Still a few hours to kill. I wonder if I should head home to change, swap this suit for something more relaxed, but I have a ton of work to do. No, better to stay put, ride out the time here, finish as much work aspossible. I sink back into my chair and try to focus on the emails piling up.
Time crawls, each minute ticking slowly on my watch. The office empties out gradually. My mind keeps drifting back to her. I keep thinking of the way she laughs, open and genuine, nothing like the cold smiles from before. Finally, 6:30p.m. rolls around. I grab my jacket, and with my nerves buzzing under my skin, I head down in the elevator.
