After two days in the hospital getting treated for what the doctors say is a case of exhaustion that needs to be carefully managed, I bring Cate back to the penthouse.

“This is where you live?” she breathes as we step off the elevator.

“Here, and the floor beneath.” Cate isn’t nearly as small town as she thinks she is. Her time in the fashion industry has given her an acute sense of the value of the things money can buy, and living in New York City will give anyone an appreciation for how expensive space can be, when people climbing the career ladder live six to an apartment.

I was one of those people once.

Never again.

She looks up at me, somehow glamorous in black yoga pants and a matching tank, and her smile is skeptical and delighted at the same time. “You need two floors? For you?”

“And you.”

Cate shakes her head. “Be serious. Two floors?”

“It’s not just me. My gym takes up about a third of the space. There’s a separate guest suite, and then space for my staff.”

Her expression turns incredulous. “How many people work here?”

“I have a full-time chef, a personal assistant who’s here about four hours most days, a driver, a personal shopper, a housekeeper, and a bodyguard.”

“I’ve never seen your bodyguard.”

“You wouldn’t have. My driver, Peter, doubles as security during times that aren’t particularly threatening, like my trips to the Basiqué office. Lance is on retainer in case of unforeseen circumstances. Right now—” I check the time on my phone. “—Laurence is here, Gloria has already made her rounds, I don’t need anything purchased today, and there’s no reason for me to think a threat is imminent. Would you like to meet Laurence?”

“Laurence is…?”

“The chef. He’s here almost all the time and will make you anything you want to eat.”

She nods, her eyes bright but her skin still pale. One introduction is enough for now.

I guide her to the massive kitchen, which divides itself between pristine luxury appliances in stainless steel and polished wood paneling that hides the refrigerator, the espresso machine, and a microwave with more features than some people’s smartphones. Laurence is fiddling around at the Italian marble counters, his curly hair barely contained by his chef’s cap. When we step into the kitchen he turns with a massive grin on his face, showing off his dimples.

“Miss Catherine,” he says, rushing around the island to take her hand in his. “My name is Laurence, and I’m the personal chef for Mr. Hunter. If there’s anything I can make or find for you—anything at all—come to me at once, or call.”

“Please, call me Cate. And—call?”

Laurence hurries to the wall where an intercom unit has been installed, its recessed edges making it easy to miss. “I’m button number two. Anything at all—don’t forget.”

“I won’t. Thank you.” Pink rises to Cate’s cheeks and it makes my chest swell with warmth to see her enjoying the luxuries I have.

Now that we’re past the ugliness of trying to force ourselves apart, I feel like a new man.

No telling how long that will last, says the asshole in the back of my mind. I internally roll my eyes. It’s a miracle that I’ve made it this far in my life.

Cate yawns dramatically, interrupting my train of thought, and everything in me snaps back to giving her my full attention. The doctor’s words ring in my ears. She needs to rest, or she runs the risk of ending up in a worse situation than before. I have no interest in watching her collapse to the floor again.

“Good man, Laurence,” I say, putting my arm around Cate. She waves to Laurence over my shoulder.

It’s not a very long walk to the main guest suite. I had Gloria make sure it was absolutely spotless and switch out the bed coverings for pieces similar to what Cate has at home—but the finest versions money can buy—so it’ll feel familiar and comfortable.

Her eyes go wide at the size of the room, the king-size bed, the carefully placed throw pillows. But the tour is postponed. She goes directly to the bed and stretches out atop it, falling asleep right away.

* * *

Cate rests for three days, and I cancel all my appointments to wait on her hand and foot.

Well, me and the rest of my staff. Laurence makes all her favorite things—pancakes, tacos, strawberries with cream—and we watch every movie she hasn’t had time to see since she’s been working at Basiqué.

We spend time talking.

“Where did you grow up?” she asks me, nestled into the crook of my arm. A perfect fit.

“Outside the city.”

“Not here in this building?”

“No,” I laugh, picturing my parents’ two-story house in New Jersey. “My parents had money, but not nearly this much.”

“What did they do?”

A wave of sadness bubbles in my chest, followed by a spike of anger.

We’re here. We’re at this point. It’s time for me to loosen my stranglehold on personal information…at least with Cate.

“My mother was a teacher until she became a housewife. And my dad…” I clench my jaw involuntarily. It takes work to release it. Cate presses against me a little harder. “My dad was a stockbroker. And in his later life he ran a Ponzi scheme that got his ass parked in jail for fifteen years.”

Cate’s mouth opens in surprise.

“What about…what did your mom do about that?”

“They got a divorce. But she’s…she’s not well. She has Alzheimer’s. She’s in one of the best senior care facilities in the city, but there are a lot of bad days.”

She leans her head against my chest and commiserates in silence.

I ask her about where she grew up.

“Where did you come from, Catherine Schaffer?”

A smile spreads across her face as she pictures home. “Winthrop Harbor is a town off of a postcard. The whole thing is on a lakeshore, and it’s about the cutest shit you’ll ever see in one place. It was pretty idyllic to grow up there. I have no complaints.”

“Why did you leave?”

She sighs a little.

“My sister Bee was always a go-getter,” she says, pursing her lips. “In one way I wanted to outdo her—go farther, get a better job. But I also loved fashion, and this is the place to do it. I came here to get ahead, but I stayed because…” She trails off. There’s something she’s hesitant about telling me, something deeper than the surface level that we’re carefully treading on.

There’ll be time for that later.

Her body in the curve-hugging outfits she wears is irresistible, but I don’t push it.

Until the fourth day.

I’m coming back from a session with my trainer, expecting to find her still asleep in her bed…but she’s not there. The bed is neatly made, even though Gloria will be in to do that later.

I find her in the walk-in closet. I had most of her clothes brought here while she was still in the hospital so she’d have them if she needed them, but she hasn’t changed to another outfit for relaxation.

She’s dressed for work.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I keep my tone light and joking, and though she smiles at me when she turns to face me, her eyes are serious.

“Going back to work.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do.” She turns back to the full-length mirror, putting in her other earring.

“Cate, you need to take it easy. You shouldn’t be back to work for at least another week. Maybe two. I made it clear to Ms. Sarzó—”

“You did what?” There’s anger in her voice.

I could do any number of things, but instead I step forward and cover her mouth with mine, tasting her sweetness.

Instantly, she melts against me, and I fold her into my arms.

When she comes up for air, I bend my head to her ear. “Stay in bed with me today.”

She doesn’t resist when I lead her by the hand to the bed, strip off all of her carefully arranged clothing, and proceed to take her so slowly, so gently, it brings tears to her eyes.