For herself.
No apology.
Then two more.
“For clients.”
Vincent noticed.
Said nothing.
Just paid the invoice.
One afternoon she wore a blue dress to dinner.
Not dark gray.
Not black.
Blue.
Soft.
Beautiful.
Vincent stared.
Khloe raised an eyebrow.
“Problem?”
“Yes.”
Her expression fell.
He continued.
“I had planned to finish eating.”
She blushed.
Vincent smiled.
Dangerous.
Six months after the storm, Khloe entered Vincent’s bedroom again.
This time she knocked.
He opened the door.
Shirt sleeves rolled.
Book in hand.
“You know you’re allowed inside.”
“I like knocking.”
“Fair.”
She entered.
The room had changed.
Not much.
Same bed.
Same desk.
Same chair.
The forged deed folder was gone.
The heavy red-and-brown blanket remained folded at the foot of the mattress.
Khloe touched it.
“You kept this here.”
“It belongs here.”
She looked at him.
“Vincent.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want the room across the hall tonight.”
His expression changed.
He closed the book.
“Why?”
She smiled.
“Still careful.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Khloe moved closer.
“I want to sleep here.”
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“Sleep?”
She laughed softly.
“Maybe eventually.”
He did not touch her yet.
“What if tomorrow feels different?”
“Then tomorrow is different.”
He smiled.
She had learned his language.
“What if I say stop?”
“I stop.”
“What if I change my mind?”
“You change it.”
Khloe touched his vest.
“And if I don’t?”
Vincent’s eyes darkened.
“Then you should stop asking questions you already know the answer to.”
She laughed.
Then kissed him.
The door closed.
The rest belonged to them.
No transaction.
No rescue.
No employment debt.
No gratitude disguised as intimacy.
Choice.
Again.
And again.
A year later Vincent asked Khloe to marry him.
Badly.
Very badly.
She was reconciling a cattle invoice.
He entered the office.
Placed a ring on top of the ledger.
Khloe stared.
“What is that?”
“A ring.”
“I can see.”
“Good.”
She waited.
Vincent waited.
Khloe looked up.
“That’s all?”
“I thought the implication was clear.”
She laughed.
“You negotiate million-dollar land rights better than this.”
“I use attorneys.”
“Apparently.”
Vincent rubbed his jaw.
Then tried again.
“Khloe Evans.”
She smiled.
“Yes?”
“I would like you to marry me.”
“Why?”
He frowned.
“That is hostile.”
“It is reasonable.”
He considered.
Then sat opposite her.
“Because when you arrived, I thought quiet meant fragile.”
Khloe’s smile faded.
“I was wrong.”
He touched the ledger.
“You noticed what men with louder voices missed.”