As they stepped onto the terrace, he leaned close, his breath against her ear.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” she asked, turning to meet his gaze.
He held her eyes, steady and unblinking.
“For seeing me,” he said.
She didn’t get the chance to respond—Eleanor was already calling them over to discuss the guest list, and the moment was gone. But as they moved into their roles for the evening—the happy, engaged couple among the Beauchamps’ distinguished guests—she couldn’t ignore her trembling hands or the sudden warmth that spread through her with each of his glances.
What terrified her most wasn’t the performance they were giving for the Beauchamps and their friends. It was the possibility that when Monday came and they returned to real life, she might not stop herself from wanting what wasn’t actually hers to keep.
Chapter 13
The reception dragged past eleven,each conversation blending into the next as he tracked her movements across the terrace. Business leaders from all over the Northeast discussed market projections and vacation properties, while she made even the notoriously difficult wife of the Massachusetts senator laugh within minutes of meeting her.
When the last guest finally departed, they climbed the stairs to their room in exhausted silence. An ache had settled at the base of his skull during the final hour, and his throat felt raw despite barely speaking above the ambient noise.
“Your turn for the bed,” she said, already pulling pillows from the massive king-sized mattress. “I’m taking the sofa tonight.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than intended.
She paused, arms full of bedding. “We agreed to alternate.”
“I never agreed to that.” He moved toward his suitcase, avoiding her gaze. “I’ll take the sofa again.”
Her exasperation was palpable. “Your stubbornness is going to have serious consequences for your spine.”
But he’d already made the decision. The way she’d said it, like she owed him a debt for his discomfort, didn’t sit right. Some outdated sense of chivalry, perhaps. Or respect for how much she’d need to juggle Monday morning while he’d cleared his schedule for the Beauchamp contract.
She disappeared into the bathroom, and he arranged himself on the inadequate sofa, trying to find a position that wouldn’t leave him crippled by morning. Sleep eluded him. The combination of Bach still humming through his veins and the furniture’s dimensions guaranteed that. His limbs ached from the unnatural angles, but another discomfort lurked beneath the physical strain: a heaviness in his muscles that felt different from mere exhaustion.
He dismissed it. A night of poor sleep. The sudden swim in cold Atlantic water. The strain of maintaining their charade.
Hours passed. The ache at the base of his skull intensified, and chills began running through him despite the room’s warmth. His body was betraying him after years of disciplined control over every aspect of his existence. The irony cut deep: the man who prided himself on never showing weakness was falling apart in front of the one person whose opinion had begun to matter more than it should.
He glanced toward the bed where she slept, her hair spread across the pillows, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. The sight created a longing so sharp it cut through even the fever’s haze. Not just physical desire, though that was undeniably present, but a deeper need he didn’t know how to name. The urge to slide under those covers beside her, to feel the heat of her body against the strange coldness that had seeped into his bones.
By the gray pre-dawn, his condition had worsened. He stood, swaying as dizziness swept over him. The bathroom mirror confirmed his suspicions: dark circles underscored his eyes, and an unusual pallor had settled beneath his tan. He splashed coldwater on his face and swallowed two aspirin from his travel kit, knowing they wouldn’t be enough but clinging to the illusion of control they provided.
Control. The word mocked him as another chill rattled through his frame.
When she stirred hours later, he had showered, dressed, and forced himself into a passable imitation of normal. The aspirin had dulled the headache to a manageable throb, though his limbs felt oddly heavy.
“Morning,” she said, stretching beneath the covers. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “You look terrible.”
“Your morning compliments never fail to charm.”
She sat up, concern replacing sleepiness. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He turned toward his suitcase to avoid her scrutiny. “I’m eager to get out of here and back to real life.”
The words felt like a betrayal even as he spoke them. This weekend, this version of himself he’d discovered in her presence, felt more real than anything he’d experienced in years.
“Right.” Her tone suggested she didn’t believe him. “Back to reality.”
She slipped into the bathroom without waiting for a reply, leaving him with the unsettling sense that his facade hadn’t fooled her at all.
