“Stop pressuring me. I’m doing what needs to be done and it works for both of us.”
“No, you’re lying to both of you. Have you talked to your mother, because I’m tired of her calling me about your social calendar.”
“I’ve talked to her.”
“Did you tell her it’s Tessa?”
“No.”
“All of this posturing is going to backfire. You know that, right?”
“I love her, Knox.”
“Then act like it. Man up to both the women in your life.”
That was all. Gabriel paid the check before Knox could reach for it, and they walked back to the office without finishing the conversation.
He promised himself that he’d tell Tessa before the Plaza event. He didn’t.
He’d had more than one chance. A hundred small openings—every dinner, every quiet morning, every time she looked at him like whatever he was carrying wasn’t too heavy for her to share.
Each time, something locked in his chest and he said nothing.
It wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t planning. It was the calculation a man made when he could see, clearly and without illusion, exactly what he stood to lose.
The Thursday before the Plaza event, Gabriel left work early to cook.
Pasta this time. He had learned his lesson on the duck. Tessa had mentioned her grandmother’s tomato sauce once, in passing, three weeks ago, and he had written it down.
Finding her mother’s number had taken twenty minutes and a level of investigative determination he usually reserved for due diligence. Carol Thorne. New Jersey. He had stared at the contact for ten full minutes before calling.
She answered on the second ring. He introduced himself carefully. Gabriel Sterling. He was seeing her daughter. He hoped he wasn’t overstepping.
A pause that lasted long enough to make him regret everything.
“I know who you are. Tessa mentioned you.”
He hadn’t known what to do with that, so he had told her the truth. He wanted to make something special for dinner. Tessa had mentioned her grandmother’s tomato sauce once, and he thought, if Carol was willing, he’d like to try to get it right.
Another pause. Shorter.
“She likes fresh tomatoes. None of that canned. Fresh, and you cook them down slow. Don’t rush it.”
He had written down every word.
Before she hung up, Carol had gone quiet in the way people did when they were deciding whether to say the thing they actually meant.
“She has had people disappoint her. Be the man who doesn’t.”
He had been thinking about that all day.
He set the tomatoes on the counter. Fresh. Basil. Garlic. A splash of red wine. Cook it down slowly.
Tessa arrived at seven looking tired and beautiful and exhausted and buzzing with nervous energy. She talked through her event timeline while he plated pasta and poured wine and listened to every word, even though she had told him most of this three times already.
“I’m overthinking. I know I’m overthinking.”
“You care. That’s different.”
