Page 39 of His To Unravel (His & Hers Duet #1)

TWENTY-FOUR

olivia

The air feels thinner this high up, as if the city has been stretched beneath us and left suspended in silence.

Nathaniel has somehow arranged for the Empire State Building’s observation deck to be closed for a private sunrise viewing, just the two of us.

It’s absurd, over-the-top, and exactly what I’ve come to expect.

Nathaniel doesn’t deal in half-measures, and when it comes to indulging me, he’s unstoppable.

Just when I think I’ve seen the most extravagant gesture, he finds new ways to surprise me—like he’s testing how far I’ll let him go before I finally push back.

Nathaniel leads me out of the elevator and into the open space. It’s still dark, but the horizon has begun to bleed pale gold into the navy sky, brushing light along the rooftops.

I drift toward the railing, my fingers curling against the cool metal as I look out over Manhattan. The wind tugs at the edges of my coat, but Nathaniel is there, as always. His hand rests gently on my back, the touch grounding but unobtrusive, reminding me I’m not alone up here.

For a long time, neither of us speaks.

There’s something delicate about the quiet, like it might shatter if we press too hard against it. The sun slips higher, brushing the tips of the skyscrapers in soft amber.

“I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to belong somewhere like this,” I say, almost to myself. “To walk these streets and know I had a place here…like the city was mine, even if just for a moment.” The words linger in the air, curling into the space between us.

Nathaniel shifts just enough that I can feel his breath at my ear, his voice low and certain. “Whatever part of this city you want, it’s yours.”

I smile, shaking my head lightly. “I don’t think it works like that.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and when I look up at him, his gaze is fixed on the horizon, his expression serious. His hand slides a fraction higher along my back, his thumb brushing against the ridge of my spine.

“You’d be surprised.” His voice is soft but sure, as if he’s made up his mind.

I wonder, not for the first time, how far he’d go to make good on promises that would seem impossible coming from anyone else.

The thought settles heavily in my chest—because with Nathaniel, even the impossible is beginning to feel inevitable.

I let my gaze drift back to the view, but the quiet stretches longer this time. Nathaniel wraps his arms around me and I find myself leaning back into the warmth of his embrace. Somehow, being held by someone so certain makes the world feel steadier.

The Windsor Room is easy to miss. There’s no sign above the entrance, no menu by the door. It exists quietly between rows of brownstones, tucked beneath an unmarked archway, where the city’s elite slip in and out without fanfare.

Nathaniel’s fingers brush my elbow as he guides me through the heavy glass doors. The staff greet him by name, and though their smiles are warm, there’s an air of professionalism that makes it clear not just anyone crosses this threshold.

I take in the space as we are led toward a table by the window.

Velvet booths line the room, a rich inky blue that matches the trim of the towering windows overlooking Central Park.

Crystal chandeliers hang low, catching the pale morning light and scattering it across white linen tables.

Understated in a way that is unmistakably exclusive.

Without Nathaniel’s reassuring proximity, his hand steady at the curve of my waist, I might feel out of place. But when he ushers me into the seat beside him, I let myself get acclimated, feeling the brush of his fingertips over my knee beneath the table.

“Champagne or coffee?” Nathaniel asks, his voice low as he scans the menu, though I suspect he’s already decided what we’re having.

I smile. “It’s a little early for champagne, don’t you think?”

Nathaniel hums thoughtfully, trailing his fingers along my jaw. “We’ll do both.”

I let him order without interjecting. He enjoys curating these experiences for me, which I sense is less about the extravagance and more about the control—the satisfaction of shaping the moment exactly how he wants it.

Within minutes, gold-dusted croissants arrive alongside heirloom berry preserves, the butter so soft it melts the second it touches the pastry. Plates of champagne-poached eggs sit atop lobster brioche, and a serving of quail and foie gras waffles is drizzled delicately with honey-lavender syrup.

I pick up a croissant, laughing lightly at the decadence. “This feels like a celebration, not a Tuesday.”

Nathaniel’s hand slides along the back of my chair, his thumb tracing a light pattern on my shoulder. “You deserve to be spoiled every day. ”

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, a man’s voice cuts in.

“Nathaniel Caldwell. I thought I’d seen a ghost.”

I glance up as a man approaches our table, mid-thirties with a sharp suit and easy confidence that screams money. His smile is broad, though there’s something pointed beneath it.

Nathaniel’s posture stiffens, his grip tightening briefly on my shoulder.

“Hunter Donaldson,” he greets coolly.

Hunter’s eyes slide over to me, blatant curiosity flashing in his gaze. “And who’s this?”

Nathaniel’s fingers go back to tracing slow circles against my shoulder. “This is Olivia. My girlfriend.” There’s a softness in the way he says it but deliberate emphasis on the title.

Hunter raises an eyebrow. “Well, I can see why he doesn’t want to share,” he says with a grin as his eyes dart between Nathaniel and me before focusing his gaze back on me. “Nathaniel is particularly careful about who he brings around. I take it you’re new to the city?”

Nathaniel’s thumb presses a little harder into my skin.

“Yes,” I reply, trying to be polite. “It’s my first time in New York, actually.”

“Is that so?” It’s clear from Hunter’s voice that he’s fishing for gossip more than making small talk.

“Nathaniel must be getting serious if he’s bringing you here.

I imagine that the city feels a bit more inviting with him playing tour guide.

” His hand rests on the back of an empty chair at our table, as if getting ready to pull it out. “Mind if I join you?”

“I’d rather Olivia enjoy her meal without interruption,” Nathaniel says evenly, his tone leaving little room for argument.

Hunter’s eyes narrow faintly at the edges, though the easy smile remains fixed in place.

“Though,” Nathaniel adds, “I hear you and your father are in the middle of negotiating that acquisition with mine. Maybe we should step aside and discuss it.”

Hunter hesitates for a breath before nodding. “Of course.”

Nathaniel rises from his seat and then leans down to press his lips to my temple. “I won’t be long, baby.” His voice softens as if the sharpness from his last exchange has been carefully tucked away. The gentleness in his tone is for me alone.

I smile up at him, my fingers brushing lightly over his wrist. “Take your time. I’ll be fine.”

Hunter casts one last curious glance in my direction, but I ignore it, turning my attention to the steady hum of the restaurant and the glint of sunlight pouring through the windows.

The champagne glass is cool against my fingers as I take a slow sip, eyes trailing absently over the view of Central Park stretching below. Nathaniel has been gone only a few minutes, but the quiet left in his absence feels heavy.

I set the glass down just as someone slides into Nathaniel’s vacant seat without invitation.

“Caldwell’s got good taste,” the man remarks, his gaze lingering a second too long.

I glance up, meeting the eyes of someone younger than Hunter but older than Nathaniel—late twenties, perhaps.

He’s pleasant-looking enough, with dark hair combed back and the kind of self-assurance that—once again—can only come from being raised with wealth.

His suit fits too perfectly to be off-the-rack, and the glint of a luxury watch peeks beneath his cuff.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” he continues, resting an elbow on the table as if we’re old friends. “My name is David Matthews.”

“I’m just visiting,” I reply politely, though I shift slightly in my seat, wishing Nathaniel would return.

His eyes flick down, pausing—almost predictably—at my left hand. The corners of his mouth curl, interest sparking behind his gaze.

“Well, I do hope you plan to stay a while. It’d be a shame if Caldwell kept you hidden away for himself.”

His insinuation hangs heavily between us.

I smile politely, reaching for the champagne glass once more to occupy my hands. “I think Nathaniel prefers it that way.”

David leans in just slightly, as if lowering his voice makes it less obvious he’s encroaching. “Can’t say I blame the man. If I were him, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight either.”

Before I can respond, the air shifts.

Nathaniel’s return is subtle, but his presence cuts through the space between us like a blade. He doesn’t say a word as he slips back into the seat beside me, his arm draping casually over the back of my chair.

“You’re interrupting, Matthews.”

David chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender as he stands. “Relax, Caldwell. Just saying hello.”

“You can say hello from your own table next time.” Nathaniel’s voice is soft, but the edge beneath it leaves no room for misinterpretation.

David lingers for half a second longer, as if debating whether to push further, but ultimately steps away with one last glance at me that I don’t return.

Nathaniel’s gaze follows him until he’s out of sight, but when his eyes shift back to me, the hardness melts away, replaced by warm affection.

His hand comes up to cup my cheek with a tenderness that catches me off guard every time.

“Are you all right?”

I nod, leaning into his touch. “I’m fine. He was harmless.”

Nathaniel’s lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, his thumb traces the curve of my cheek as if to settle himself.

“Let’s finish breakfast,” I encourage softly. “You promised me champagne and coffee.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and with a final brush of his lips against my temple, he relents.

By the time we step outside, the morning air is crisp with sunlight spilling over the city streets. Nathaniel’s hand slides around my waist, tugging me close to him as the Rolls-Royce glides to the curb.

Once the doors shut, Nathaniel leans forward and presses a button that slides the privacy screen into place. The second it clicks, he pulls me onto his lap. His arms wrap around me as he buries his face in the curve of my neck.

A soft sigh escapes him, the tension from earlier still evident in the way his hands hold me tighter than necessary.

“I don’t like the way other men look at you,” he murmurs against my skin.

I tilt my head, threading my fingers through his hair. “They only notice me because of you, Nathaniel.”

He pulls back just enough to tilt my chin up, his gaze shadowed with something deeper than lust. I recognise the shift in him—this way desire blends with protectiveness, how the aftermath of this morning still clings to him like smoke.

This isn’t just about wanting me. It’s about undoing the unease, reclaiming what’s his.

His lips find mine, feather-light at first. Measured. But restraint slips away almost instantly. The tension from earlier unfurling through the press of his mouth, turning deliberate into desperate, reverent into ruthless—and I let it consume me.

One of his hands slide down, cupping the curve of my waist. His fingers splay wide as if to mold me closer, to erase any space between us.

The air thickens, heady with the weight of his need, and I feel it in the way his hands roam—tracing up my sides, gripping possessively at my hip before drifting lower, claiming every inch within reach.

I respond without thinking. My arms slip beneath his jacket, tugging him closer. The heat of his touch sends shivers ricocheting down my spine, and I lean further into him, caught in the dizzying pull of how deeply he wants me.

It isn’t just a kiss—it’s a vow, one that whispers that he’ll consume me whole if I let him. And god, I want him to.

The rest of the world blurs into nothing, leaving only the intoxicating sensation of his mouth against mine, his hands mapping every part of me he can reach.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against mine, his breath shallow.

“They notice you,” he insists, brushing his thumb against my bottom lip. “And I don’t like it.”

I offer him a small smile, holding his gaze. “It doesn’t matter who notices me, because the only one I see is you.”