He surrendered them, too miserable to maintain his usual iron grip on control. She helped him into the passenger seat with quiet competence before stowing their bags in the trunk. When she slid into the driver’s seat, she adjusted everything, as if she’d been driving his car for years.
“Your address?” she asked, starting the engine.
“You don’t need to come home with me.”
She gave him a sidelong glance as she pulled out of the parking space. “Address, please.”
“Devney,” he said, summoning what little energy he had left for an argument, “the weekend is over. Contract nearly signed. You’re off duty.”
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. “Is that what you think this is? A duty?”
“It’s a business arrangement,” he said, though every instinct rebelled against the words. “Consider yourself released from further obligations.”
She pulled the car to an abrupt stop at a red light, turning to face him with fire in her eyes. “For a brilliant businessman, you can be remarkably dense.”
“Why?”
“A business partner would leave you at the curb with your keys and a polite ‘take care.’ A colleague might call a car and send a follow-up email on Monday. But someone who cares about you wouldn’t walk away when you’re clearly not okay,” she said. “Give me the address and let me help you.”
“890 Park Avenue,” he said after a moment, surrendering to whatever this was between them. “Penthouse B.”
She nodded, making a skillful turn uptown. “Thank you.”
They drove in relative silence, the classical music playing through the car’s speakers. Bach again, he realized with bitter irony. The same piece he’d played for her yesterday, when theworld had felt different and his defenses hadn’t been quite so compromised.
“You don’t have to take care of me,” he said finally, unable to leave the matter unsettled. “I can manage.”
She sighed. “I know you can manage. You’ve probably been managing everything alone since you were twelve. But sometimes, the point isn’t whether you can do everything by yourself. It’s whether you should have to.”
“I don’t need—” he began, but she cut him off.
“Need is irrelevant,” she said simply. “Want, on the other hand…”
She navigated through the Sunday traffic, handling his car with surprising skill. He leaned his head against the cool window, closing his eyes against another wave of dizziness.
“For what it’s worth,” she added quietly, “I want to help. Not because of our arrangement. Not because it’s good for business. Simply because.”
Because she cared. As if caring could be that simple, uncomplicated by expectations or obligations or the careful cost-benefit analyses that governed every other relationship in his life.
By the time they reached his building, speaking required more energy than he possessed. She handled everything: valeting the car, retrieving their bags, nodding to the doorman with such confidence that he didn’t question her presence at Ronan’s side.
In the elevator, she supported more of his weight than he wanted to admit, her arm firm around his waist as his fever climbed higher. The short walk from the elevator to his door felt interminable.
“Which key?” she asked softly, holding up the ring.
“The black fob.”
She unlocked the door and helped him inside. His apartment looked strange through feverish eyes: too large, too sterile, too empty.
This was his life, he realized with uncomfortable clarity. Beautiful, expensive, and utterly devoid of warmth.
“Bedroom?” she asked, still supporting him as they crossed the threshold.
He nodded toward the hallway to the right, letting her guide him down it. His bedroom appeared before them, the massive bed with its hospital corners and dark bedding suddenly the most inviting sight imaginable.
“Sit,” she said, lowering him to the edge of the mattress with careful hands.
He wanted to protest as she knelt before him, her fingers working to untie his shoes. This level of intimacy crossed boundaries.
