What I get: she stares at the contents of the box with her lips slightly parted and blinks twice, as if her eyes are having difficulty with what they’re processing.
“You don’t like it,” I say.
“No — I do. It’s—” She looks up at me and then back at the box. “It’s beautiful. It’s genuinely beautiful.” A pause. “But where would I wear it? During lessons with Anya? In the kitchen?” She stops herself. Worry crosses her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… that came out ungrateful. Thank you. It’s stunning.”
She closes the box and holds it carefully, with both hands, the way she held Anya during the attack — protective, deliberate.
“You’ll be wearingit soon.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“I have to travel,” I say. “A few days. Perhaps a week.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “Can I ask why?”
“Business.”
She reads my face. “Okay,” she finally accepts.
I lean down. The kiss is brief, just a point of contact, just enough. She doesn’t pull back, which is its own kind of answer. I straighten and walk to the door.
It’s a long week.
Three cities, seven meetings, two situations that require personal resolution and don’t lend themselves to delegation.
We lock down the New York alliance and confirm the Chicago connection. The understanding we’ve reached is provisional and not warm, but it holds for now.
Dushku is the remaining problem. He’s gone quiet again. We’re watching his known associates and following the money. I have people in positions that will give me forty-eight hours’ notice when he moves. It’s the best available situation. Still, it’s uncomfortable.
I think about Elizabeth all the fucking time.
I try to focus on the damn meetings, on the problems I have to face, but every five minutes my mind goes right back to her. I find myself, in a hotel room in New York at midnight, calculating what time it is at the estate and whether she’s asleep and whether she’s in my bed or hers.
I hope she’s in mine.
I’m supposed to return on Thursday. I come back on Tuesday.
The bedroom door is closed. I open it.
She’s in my bed. The lamp on the nightstand, a book open on her chest. She looks almost comfortable, settled, occupyingthe space that’s both hers and mine. She’s wearing one of my shirts.
It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
When I enter, she turns her head.
“Hi.” The surprise is genuine — the book lowering, the eyes adjusting. “I-I didn’t expect you today.”
“I finished earlier than planned.”
I swear I spot relief cross her face, and then the reflexive management of the relief, the instinct to not let me see too much. She’s not fast enough.
“How was it?”
“Productive.”
She rolls her eyes. I sit on the edge of the bed, lean in, and kiss her.
Her mouth is warm. She tastes like tea. I take my time with it.
