Page 21

The air whips around us as we exit the helicopter.

Dalton’s cheeks are pink, which is far better than the pasty pallor our building climbing excursion had painted them.

True, he was uncharacteristically quiet for most of the flight, the grip he had kept on my hand nearing uncomfortable as my fingers went numb.

But I had refused to let go and as the sun started to set over the city, giving us a private view of the most spectacular skyline, Dalton’s hand loosened on mine.

Awe filled his eyes as the sun disappeared, weaving magic into the very fabric of the atmosphere.

The buildings cast long shadows, imbuing the landscape with a dramatic, near theatrical aura.

The pilot had cued up a symphony to play over our headphones, rendering the moment perfect.

I had never seen the city this way and knew I would never look at it the same again.

Dalton probably wouldn’t either. Now that we are back on the ground, I don’t care that the helicopter’s blades are mussing my hair or that the folds of my dress may have gotten enough lift to Marilyn Monroe a few of the people working the landing pad.

All of it is worth the gleam in Dalton’s eyes.

The moment we’re out of the blades’ reach, Dalton tugs me into his arms, kissing me in a way that turns my knees to rubber.

My back bows as he deepens it, tongue caressing mine.

A million kisses from the man would never be enough.

He’s ruining me for all future dates. Damn it.

When he pulls away, we’re both grinning like enamored idiots.

“Worth the anxiety?” I ask, breathless.

“Absolutely. That was more how I envisioned the building climb going. A little nervous, and less wanting to pass out or puke.”

“You do look significantly less green.” I don’t resist when his hand takes mine, fingers intertwining as we head back to Charles and the waiting car.

“Good, because we have a very fancy meal waiting for us.”

This causes my feet to falter. Why haven’t I thought about the logistics of dinner until now?

All these charity dates end at one of the city’s most prestigious restaurants.

The press about them is always huge. So far, we’ve avoided the public eye almost entirely today, but restaurants of that caliber can’t just close for a private event on a whim.

Reservations are months, sometimes a year out.

“How exactly are we keeping dinner private?” I ask as we slide into the car.

“I called in a favor from a friend. Trust me.” Dalton runs a thumb over my knuckles. “This will be one of the most exclusive meals you’ll ever have.”

Charles drops us off in a garage with security nearing Fort Knox levels.

An ex-military-looking woman admitted us after confirming Dalton’s identity and checking both our names off some visitors’ list. The private elevator requires a keycard that Dalton produces from his wallet and a code.

The flutter in my stomach has little to do with the rapidly rising lift.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You can climb the outside of a building, no problem, but a private elevator is of concern?” Dalton quirks a brow.

Before I can speak, there’s a ding and the door slides open to an apartment the likes of which I’ve only seen in movies.

Immense windows scaling two stories surround a living room laid out with designer furniture and a roaring modern fireplace.

I almost miss the ultra-modern kitchen except that there are three people buzzing around it in chef uniforms. The aroma filling the air twists my stomach with hunger.

“Holy shit.” The words slip out before I can mash them back down. “Do the Kardashians live here?”

“Not a terrible view, right? Pretty sweet for a squatter’s pad.” Dalton sweeps an arm out, letting me enter first.

“ You’re living here?” I whirl on him. I knew athletes made good money, but a place like this could break a prince’s bank account.

“Live here, yes. Own it, no. It’s a temporary place to crash.” Dalton takes my hand again, leading me into the living room. I have an underlying fear of touching anything and sully it with a broke person’s fingerprint.

“Who the hell loans out a penthouse apartment in New York for someone to crash at?” I eye the white marble fireplace, Knoll black leather sofa, and Eames chair. “Is this where you steal my kidney to pay for this place?”

“Your kidneys are safe, forty-eight. Stop trying to turn me into a black market body parts dealer.” Dalton drops his voice. “The place belongs to The Vortex’s owner.”

I think of the guard downstairs and the story Dalton had mentioned about the owner wanting to keep the incident with Ellie on the down-low due to sponsorships. “So this place is hush money and security for his best player all rolled into one?”

“Perks of having a famous stalker.” The joke comes out a little terse. “It’s a bit much for my taste, but the security here is on point.”

A man appears, having dislodged from the pack in the kitchen. He’s clad in black, the denim apron giving him an air of expertise I expect from a five-star restaurant. At least the kind of place Netflix’s Chef’s Table has painted in my head. “Good evening. May I start you with a cocktail?”

“Ladies first.” Dalton offers.

“A Bee’s Knees?” I say it like a question, surprised when the man nods.

“And for the gentleman?” He asks.

“Old Fashioned, please.”

With a slight bow, the man heads back to the kitchen, where glassware clinks. I watch the three men, one focused on our drinks as the other two alternate food prep and manning the stove. They even brought extra burners, creating their own chef’s kitchen in the middle of Dalton’s apartment.

“You had the restaurant come to us.”

“I did.” Dalton draws me toward the dining table near the glass wall, already set for two. “Amazing views, completely private, custom tasting menu, and the nearest bed is only a set of stairs away, should we choose to use it.” He continues, pulling out a chair for me.

“Hard to argue with that reasoning,” I admit, taking the seat.

Dalton settles in across from me just as the bartender reappears with our drinks and the chef to talk us through the meal.

With no allergies between the two of us, we’re in for an eight-course meal.

Each plate will be curated and presented with equal passion.

The meal is exquisite. Ramona wines and dines potential clients at fine restaurants all the time, bringing me along to keep notes.

This meal outshines any of those. Turns out, the head chef is one of Second Chance’s earliest employees.

He now does five-star-level meals for celebrities and New York elites at home.

The flexibility of not owning a physical restaurant allows him time to be an amazing chef and still be a present father to his sons.

I hadn’t realized this kind of cooking is even a thing, but it makes perfect sense.

If you’re famous, a simple dinner out can be derailed by intrusive fans, so why not bring the restaurant to you?

Same amazing food with all the privacy. It’s genius.

After the meal, the crew placates us with a bottle of wine before shooing us out onto the patio so they can clean up.

First, snagging a blanket off the sofa as we head out, Dalton then flips a switch, turning on a fire pit next to an overstuffed outdoor couch.

The view is almost as good as the helicopter’s, the apartment overlooking one of the city’s only strips of green.

The vivid tree tops of Central Park look unreal against the metal skyline surrounding it from up here.

Nose nearly pressed to the balcony’s high glass surrounds, I jump when the blanket slips over my shoulders, followed by an arm winding around my waist.

Dalton’s lips find my ear, sending a prickle over my scalp when he speaks. “Stunning view.”

“I would spend every day out here if this was my place.”

“I was talking about you.” He places a kiss behind my ear. Shivers race down my spine and I lean into his body, relishing the warmth. Dalton misinterprets the tremor and pulls me toward the sofa and fire pit. “Do you want to choose the photos I’m gonna send to Ramona?”

My fingers are itching to flip through them before the phone is even out of his pocket.

Dalton sits in the center of the sofa, holding the phone like bait.

I curl up next to him, tucking my feet under me and resting my bent knees over his thigh.

My dress pools into his lap and there’s a hungry flash as he stares down at the fabric, tracing it to the gap at my thigh.

I tug the blanket over our laps. If he keeps looking at me like that, damn the pictures and the men still cleaning up in the kitchen.

I’ll wrap my legs around him right now and take every inch he has to offer.

Dalton clears his throat, and I realize I’m staring at his lips.

“Pictures?” His voice is deeper than usual. “I’ve already favorited the ones I think we should send, but since I gave you veto rights…” Dalton opens a photo sub-folder and hands the phone over.

“Right. Pictures.” I snag the device, only to thrust it back in his face to unlock the damn thing after I fumble and bump the lock key. One arm draped over my shoulders, he taps through the screens, pulling up the photos before reclaiming his wine glass and taking a healthy swig.

I gulp a mouthful of my own and begin scrolling through, starting from this morning. Damn, they’re good. Surprisingly good. Ramona is going to flip when she gets them. The day is chronicled in an Insta-worthy fashion most influencers dream of trying to achieve.

“Did you edit these?” I tilt my head, pausing on a photo I took of our breakfast. The lighting is better than I remember, a vignette highlighting Second Chance’s logo on the napkin.

“Just a few, while you were in the spa, figured I’d make good use of the downtime.”

“Dalton, these look professional.”