“I’m not watching romantic comedies,” he said, his expression so genuinely alarmed that she had to bite back laughter.
“What do you have against romantic comedies? Afraid you might crack an expression? Or worse, have an emotion?”
He rolled his eyes, but she caught the slight lift of his lips.
“I prefer entertainment with some basis in reality.”
“Says the guy who reads financial projections for fun,” she teased. “Fine, no rom-coms. We’ll find middle ground.”
She glanced down at her wrinkled clothes. “But first, I need to freshen up. Any chance you have clothes I could borrow? I’d rather not spend the day in yesterday’s outfit.”
He looked momentarily taken aback, as if the request puzzled him.
“I…suppose I could find an option.”
“Nothing fancy,” she assured him. “A T-shirt would be fine. The stuff I packed for the weekend is still in your car, and I’m not exactly up for a wardrobe run right now.”
He nodded, setting down his coffee. “I’ll see what I can do.”
While he disappeared into his bedroom, she helped herself to another pastry and explored the living room more thoroughly than she’d had time for yesterday. Like everything else in his home, it was elegant, expensive, and oddly impersonal. No family photos, no mementos, nothing that revealed the man behind the wealth.
The only hint of personality was the bookshelf tucked into the corner. Filled with well-read paperbacks showing clear signs of use—creased spines, bent corners, curling pages softened by handling. She ran her fingers along the titles, discovering an eclectic mix of classics and contemporary fiction. Hemingway next to Murakami. Austen beside McEwan.
“Here,” his voice startled her. He stood a few feet away, holding out a neatly folded Harvard T-shirt and what looked like drawstring pajama pants. “These should work.”
She glanced at the identical logo on the shirt he was wearing.
“Wait, will we both be wearing Harvard?” she asked.
He looked down, then back at her. “Completely unintentional.”
She laughed. “Adorable. Do we get monogrammed robes next? Maybe matching crests?”
“You’re welcome,” he grumbled, but there was no heat in it.
She headed to the bathroom, marveling again at the marble-and-glass luxury. She washed her face, grateful for the unopened toothbrush and toothpaste he’d thoughtfully included with the clothes.
His T-shirt was unsurprisingly soft, probably some ridiculously expensive cotton despite its simple appearance. It hung loose on her frame, reaching mid-thigh. The crimson Harvard logo had faded from many washings, making it somehow more intimate than if it had been new. She had to cinch the drawstring pants tight and roll the waistband to keep them from falling down.
When she emerged, he was on the couch, scrolling through his tablet. He looked up, and something quick and unreadable flickered in his eyes before his expression became neutral again.
“Better?” he asked, his voice oddly tight.
“Much,” she said, moving across the room to join him. “Thanks for the clothes. Very Ivy League chic.”
He cleared his throat, setting the tablet aside. “I was reviewing the streaming options. Since you’ve insisted on this…relaxation day.”
“Look at you, already embracing the plan,” she said, curling up at the opposite end of the couch. “What did you find?”
“Nothing with singing, dancing, or improbable romantic scenarios,” he said firmly.
“Killjoy cinema it is,” she said with a grin. “Let me see.”
They eventually settled on a thriller that promised enough intelligence to satisfy him and enough actual plot to keep her entertained. As the movie began, she was acutely conscious of the deliberate space between them—necessary but somehow ridiculous.
The cognitive dissonance was striking. They’d maintained a careful professional distance for months, yet here she sat in his living room, wearing his Harvard T-shirt, about to spend the day watching movies. The intimacy of it should have felt strange, but instead it felt right.
About twenty minutes in, she pulled the cashmere throw over her legs, suppressing a shiver. The air conditioning in his penthouse was set to arctic levels.
