I pause, watching the fairy lights wrapped around the trees in Lior and Noah’s garden. “My father especially… I think he never quite knew what to do with me. The adopted son versus the biological one. So he made us compete for everything. Best grades, earliest graduation, most impressive internships. Whoever worked the hardest earned his approval that week.”
Thatcher lets out a breath. “That’s exhausting.” The way he says it makes it seem like he knows exactly how I feel.
“It was. James and I were never allowed to just be brothers. We were rivals from the moment he could walk.” I run a hand through my hair. “When I got together with Lior, everything shifted. Suddenly, I was the golden child again, the one bringing our family together with the Van Sterns. James went from heir apparent to afterthought overnight.”
I look at Thatcher, surprised by how much I’ve revealed. “I suppose that’s why he’s so determined to destroy what I’ve built here. It’s not just business. It’s proving he’s the real son.”
“But Lior is with Noah.”
I nod. “I messed it all up by…”
Thatcher puts his hand on my arm, and the warmth spreads all the way to my neck.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“True, but maybe you should know.” Because this way, I may never get tempted to cross the line.
“Okay.”
“He almost lost VSE because of me. I blackmailed him and Noah. I’m not proud of it, and I don’t deserve his friendship.”
I wait for his hand to move, but he doesn’t shift.
“You’re working with him. He forgave you.”
“I don’t deserve it, Thatcher. Any of it. Any of this.” I gesture to the house, where Lior and Noah are preparing our dessert.
I stare into Thatcher’s blue eyes.
“He forgave you. Maybe it’s time for you to forgive yourself.”
The night air suddenly feels heavier, and my head swims with conflicting thoughts. Reaching over and taking Thatcher’s mouth in mine. Finding out if he still tastes the same. Accepting that maybe what I did was a product of my upbringing, and that by trying to fix it, I ended up hurting someone I cared about deeply.
“I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen,” I confess.
We stand there in the starlight, neither moving closer nor pulling away, balanced on the edge of something that could change everything. Thatcher’s hand slides over to touch mine, and I take a deep breath as his touch, as innocent as it is, lights a fire inside me.
The sounds of Lior and Noah cleaning up drift through the open doors, reminding me of where we are, who we are, what lines we shouldn’t cross.
The moment stretches between us, as fragile as spun sugar. I find myself swaying slightly closer, drawn by the warmth in Thatcher’s eyes and the way his shoulder begs for my touch.
The sound of the patio door opening breaks the spell. Thatcher steps back, his hand sliding off mine, but his smile holds promises I’m no longer sure I want to ignore.
Lior greets us with a raised brow and the rich aroma of fresh coffee. “Coffee’s here,” he says, placing the tray with the delicate cups and saucers on the outdoor table. “And Noah’s parents sent over their famous chocolate mousse.”
“The one from the restaurant?” Thatcher’s excitement rises about a hundred notches. “Pierce, you have to try this. It’s like clouds and dreams got together to give us perfection.”
The mousse lives up to Thatcher’s poetic description, melting on my tongue, drawing an involuntary sound of appreciation. When I look up, Thatcher is watching me with that same intensity I saw in his eyes that night. His own spoon hovers forgotten halfway to his mouth, and something about his distraction makes heat crawl up my neck.
The evening stretches comfortably as we finish our desserts and coffee, conversation flowing easily between us. But as the coffee cups empty and the night deepens, the weight of tomorrow’s responsibilities settles on my shoulders.
“It’s getting late,” I say. “I should probably…”
“I’ll walk you out,” Thatcher offers immediately, already standing.
At the door, he pauses, turning to face me in the soft light of the entry. “Thank you,” he says quietly, “for coming tonight. It was nice seeing you outside the office…again.”
The moment is heavy with all the things we can’t say. His sweater has slipped again, and this time, I do reach out, adjusting the fabric with fingers that tremble slightly. His breath catches at the contact, and I let my hand linger longer than necessary, feeling the warmth of his skin through the soft material.
