Caleb became completely still.
She continued before courage disappeared.
“Not a perfect version.”
“Not an executive version.”
“Not the man you think you must be so everybody keeps needing you.”
“You.”
His eyes looked suddenly wet.
“This is all I have.”
Clare shook her head.
“Good.”
He almost laughed.
“Good?”
“If you had any more polish, I might distrust you.”
He looked down.
When he lifted his eyes again, vulnerability made him seem younger.
“Ellie is part of this.”
“I know.”
“She comes first.”
“I know.”
“Anna existed.”
Clare understood exactly what he meant.
He would not erase his late wife to make another woman comfortable.
“Good.”
Caleb’s voice lowered.
“I might still leave Harrow eventually.”
“That is a career decision.”
“Yes.”
“Do not disguise emotional panic as one.”
He smiled.
“Bossy.”
“Efficient.”
They stood close enough now that neither could pretend the moment was professional.
Caleb lifted one grease-marked hand.
Stopped.
Clare noticed.
“You can touch me.”
He placed his hand against her cheek.
Carefully.
The contrast was absurd.
Clare in cashmere.
Caleb smelling faintly of machine oil.
The first kiss happened beside line three.
No music.
No applause.
No audience except machinery.
It was not cinematic.
It was better.
Caleb kissed her once.
Stopped.
Looked at her.
Clare pulled him back.
The second kiss lasted longer.
When they separated, she looked at his shirt.
“You got grease on me.”
Caleb glanced at her sleeve.
“Yes.”
Clare smiled.
“I’ll survive.”
He laughed against her forehead.
The resignation letter was torn in half the next morning.
Denise found the pieces in Clare’s office trash.
She looked at Clare.
“I assume this means I won.”
“There was no contest.”
“I have been betting privately for three months.”
Clare stared.
“With whom?”
“Mostly myself.”
“That is not betting.”
“I dislike losing.”
Clare almost laughed.
Then Denise noticed something.
“Is that grease?”
Clare looked at the faint mark near her cuff.
“No.”
“Clare.”
“Meeting.”
Denise followed her into the hallway grinning.
Dating Caleb Carter turned out to be more frightening than acquiring distressed companies.
The first dinner at Clare’s apartment went badly.
Not because of Caleb.
Because Ellie came too.
Clare had prepared.
Too much.
Caterer.
Three-course dinner.
Table formally set.
Flowers.
Ellie stepped inside and whispered:
“Are we allowed to touch things?”
Clare froze.
Caleb gave her a look.
She immediately understood.
Five minutes later she ordered pizza.
The caterer looked horrified.
Ellie ate on the floor beside the coffee table.
Caleb removed his jacket.
Clare sat beside them.
Her penthouse looked imperfect for the first time.
Three pizza boxes.
Napkins.
Ellie’s shoes near the sofa.
Caleb’s coat over a chair.
Clare looked around.
Something inside her loosened.
Ellie noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’re doing a face.”
Caleb groaned.
“Please stop diagnosing adults.”
“It’s useful.”