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“God help me, I do.” The admission feels important somehow, an acknowledgment of how completely my idea of him has changed.
“Hungry?” he asks after another comfortable silence. “There’s dessert I didn’t get around to serving. Chocolate mousse.”
“That sounds amazing,” I admit. “Though I’m not sure I can move yet.”
“Who said anything about moving?” He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. “One benefit of a building with full service.”
Minutes later, his security phone buzzes, and Ethan pulls on boxer briefs to retrieve what turns out to be two perfect chocolate mousses delivered to his private elevator by the night doorman.
“This is decadent,” I comment as we eat in bed, me wearing his discarded shirt, him in just boxers.
“The dessert or the delivery service?” he asks, looking very attractive with his hair mussed and a relaxed smile playing at his lips.
“Both,” I admit. “Though I meant the service. I’m used to walking to the corner bodega in sweatpants when I have late-night cravings.”
“We could do that too, if you prefer the authentic New York experience.” His tone is teasing, but there’s genuine consideration beneath it—a willingness to adapt to my comfort level that I find touching.
“Maybe next time,” I suggest, setting aside my empty dessert cup. “This has its advantages.”
“Next time,” he repeats, looking pleased. “I like the sound of that.”
“Did you think this was a onetime thing?” I ask.
“I hoped not.” His expression turns more serious. “But I understand that my life doesn’t fit with yours.”
“I know.” I lean back against his pillows, considering. “My publisher already has concerns about my ‘balanced’ approach. If they find out about... this... they’ll question my objectivity.”
“Would they be right to?” he asks, watching me carefully.
“No,” I answer without hesitation. “I’ve documented what I found, good and bad. My personal feelings haven’t affected my professional verdict.”
“I believe you.” He takes my hand, interlacing our fingers. “But will others?”
“Most won’t,” I acknowledge. “There will be criticism, accusations, questions about both our motives.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
I consider the question, weighing my reputation against my happiness—an equation I’ve never had to calculate before.
“I think,” I say slowly, “that I’m tired of letting external expectations dictate my personal choices. I’ve spent years being the uncompromising environmental advocate, maintaining perfect professional distance. And that work matters—it still matters to me. But so does this. I deserve a life too.”
The smile that transforms his face makes my heart race. “That’s... great to hear.”
“But,” I add, holding up a cautionary finger, “we should be careful about going public. We should, wait until after my piece publishes.”
“Agreed.” He nods. “No sense adding unnecessary outside pressure until we’ve given this a chance.”
“I’m sorry, I think that it’s better this way for now.” I slip closer to him, drawn by the warmth of his body. “I don’t want to lose everything I have worked for.”
“I understand,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. “You have a reputation to protect, just as much as I do.”
I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, marveling at how right this feels despite all the logical reasons it shouldn’t. “This is strange, isn’t it? Us, together like this.”
“Strange,” he agrees, fingers playing with my hair. “But right.”
“Right,” I repeat, liking the phrase.
As I drift toward sleep in Ethan’s arms, surrounded by the comfort of his bed and the twinkling city beyond the windows, I contemplate the unpredictable nature of human connection. Five days ago, I condemned this man as the embodiment of corporate evil. Now I’m falling asleep in his arms, contemplating a future that somehow has him in it.