“Not tragedy.”
“Just arithmetic.”
Alex nodded.
He did not offer money.
That mattered.
“What about Sunday?” he asked.
Maya looked at him.
“Are you asking me out?”
“Yes.”
“As billionaire Alex Harper?”
His expression tightened.
“As Alex.”
“You see the problem.”
“I do.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He leaned against desk.
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“Not ordering.”
“No car.”
“No assistant.”
“No company building.”
“Public place.”
“One coffee.”
“You can leave whenever.”
Maya studied him.
“You practiced that.”
“With my grandmother.”
She laughed despite herself.
“Sunday.”
Alex tried not to look too relieved.
“What time?”
“Ten.”
“Where?”
“You don’t choose.”
He raised his hands.
“Understood.”
She named a small café in Columbia City.
Alex had never been there.
Perfect.
Sunday became two hours.
Coffee became breakfast.
Breakfast became walking several blocks in cold air while Maya told him about growing up in Tacoma, her mother working two jobs after Maya’s father left, and her failed attempt to complete nursing school before Rosa’s illness forced her to leave.
Alex told her about Lily.
His late wife, Emma.
The cancer diagnosis two months after Lily’s second birthday.
The twelve months between diagnosis and funeral.
How everyone praised his strength when what he wanted was permission to stop functioning.
Maya did not say she understood.
She said:
“That must have been lonely.”
Alex stopped walking.
Most people said hard.
Tragic.
Awful.
No one said lonely.
“Yes.”
Maya nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at her.
“Thank you.”
They kept walking.
Alex did not mention Cassandra.
Or the other engagements.
Not yet.
Maya did not ask about money.
Not once.
That frightened him more than if she had.
Over the next six weeks they saw each other carefully.
Coffee.
Lunch.
A park with Lily.
One rainy afternoon at an aquarium.
Lily liked Maya immediately, which Alex both wanted and feared.
Children made attachments without legal review.
Maya never tried to impress her.
When Lily wanted to spend forty minutes watching jellyfish, Maya watched jellyfish.
When Lily cried because another child laughed at her rabbit, Maya did not say the rabbit was silly or brave or special.
She simply asked:
“What’s his name?”
“Biscuit.”
“Biscuit looks like he has survived a lot.”
“He has.”
“Then I’d keep him.”
Lily nodded seriously.
Alex watched from six feet away.
Something in his chest hurt.
Maya became part of his life slowly enough that he almost failed to see it happening.
Then Khloe Sterling noticed.
Khloe had been senior vice president of strategic partnerships at Harper Global for six years.
Thirty-six.
Brilliant.
Controlled.
Beautiful in a way media photographs loved.
She had also been Eleanor’s preferred candidate for Alex once.
Not formally.
Eleanor denied matchmaking.
Nobody believed her.
Alex and Khloe dated for three months two years earlier.
They ended amicably, he thought.
Khloe did not.