I push him against it and whisper in his ear. “Baby, you were born to stand out and shine.”
He doesn’t reply, but his smile reassures me that I said the right thing.
Outside, Manhattan wraps around us like an embrace, the evening air carrying hints of the approaching autumn. Thatcher’s like a child who just found the best playground. When we walk through a small park, he stops, takes a tiny sketchbook and a pencil out of his pocket, and starts drawing the building in front of us with the trees in the foreground.
“Wait—” He stops. “Come over here.” He drags me by the hand to a bench and asks me to sit.
“You’re not going to sketch me now, are you?” My laugh is semi-choked from embarrassment.
“Why not? You’re the best view in Manhattan,” he says without taking his eyes off the book in his hands.
Heat rises in my cheeks as his pencil moves across the page with quick, confident strokes. “I can’t believe you’re sketching me on a New York City park bench.”
“Believe it,” he murmurs, glancing up briefly to study my pose before returning to his work. “Though try to look less like you’re having an existential crisis. Maybe more like the man who just spent the day discovering he actually enjoys being a tourist.”
“Did I enjoy being a tourist?” I scratch the scruff I couldn’t be bothered to shave this morning. “I was distracted thinking about you most of the day.”
Thatcher’s pencil pauses as he looks up fully now, his expression softening. “You know, I’ve thought about that.”
“About how you distract me even when you’re not around?”
He chuckles. “No, about how you always seem so sure of yourself, so confident, so perfectly suited for corporate life.” His head tilts slightly. “But what did you want to be when you were younger?”
The question catches me off guard. I shift slightly on the bench, making him frown and gesture for me to stay still. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I can’t imagine you dreaming of spreadsheets as a kid,” he says, returning to his sketch but continuing to talk. “Everyone starts with bigger dreams, right? Astronaut, firefighter, circus performer…”
“Circus performer?” I laugh despite myself.
“You’d look good in sequins,” he says seriously, then grins. “But really. What was Pierce Dellcourt’s childhood dream?”
I’m quiet for a moment, watching the way the evening light catches in his curls. “Architect,” I admit finally. “I used to build elaborate structures with blocks, then graduated to detailed drawings of buildings that could never actually exist. Too many impossible angles.”
Thatcher’s pencil stills completely as he looks at me with new interest. “What happened to that dream?”
“Reality,” I say, though the word comes out more bitter than intended. “I was so conditioned to compete against James that I thought my only option for a career was to prepare to take over the family business when my father retired.”
“But you’re not doing that.”
My hands curl into fists. The familiar weight of familydisappointment settles on my shoulders. “No. I’m not doing that.”
“Why not?”
The question hits harder than it should. Because I failed. Because I chose Lior over family loyalty and lost both. Because James proved himself the better Dellcourt son while I was busy destroying my relationship and my reputation.
“We should probably go,” I add, needing to change the subject. “We don’t want to be late for dinner, and we still have a block to go.”
If Thatcher finds my sudden shift in topic or the fact that I completely ignored his question strange, he doesn’t say it. He simply pockets the sketchbook and stands. “You lead the way.”
“Are you going to show me your sketch?” I ask.
“It depends.”
“On what?”
The look he gives tells me exactly the conditions required for the disclosure of his tiny piece of art. I pull him close and whisper in his ear.
“Don’t tease me, or we’ll skip dinner altogether.”
