She took a few minutes to scan the room again. On her second sweep, she spotted it. She knew what it was the second she saw it, and her heart stopped. Her dad had a copy of it as well that he kept by his bed. Hanging on a wall in Nathan’s living room was a montage of framed family photos. His oldest brother Henry’s wedding photo, a picture of their family at Christmas, his brother James holding his Pulitzer Prize, a shot of Nathan with his uncle Charles, a former Secretary of Defense and CEO of K-B. Then there was that photograph. It was a picture of Nathan and Emma—correction, Nathan and Emily—almost completely from the back, one-quarter profile. Nathan was standing on the empty beach in Nantucket with her on his shoulders. She had just turned four, Nathan, nine. The sun was setting, and the sky was pure pink. Nathan was pointing to the ball of fire dipping below the horizon, making sure Emily didn’t miss the moment when it disappeared. With his other hand, he was holding her tiny, bare foot. Her head was resting on her hands that were nestled in his mop of hair. They were both utterly at peace. It was the most beautiful photograph she had ever seen.
Emma swiped at the tears streaking her face and tried, tried to get it together before Nathan came back and found her looking like a crazy person, a nosy, crazy person. Well, she was a reporter after all. When Nathan did emerge—exactly five minutes later—Emma had moved to the window and was staring out at what was no doubt a twenty-million-dollar view of Central Park and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. When she turned to face him, she had to catch her breath.
Grey thermal shirt, faded jeans, barefoot. Just wow.
“Wine?”
“Is that what you’re having?”
“I’m having a scotch.”
“Single malt?”
His brow quirked up. “Yes.”
Emma hated wine—bad associations—and she had tasted single malt scotch once or twice. Her dad drank it. It was warm and spicy.
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
This time when he said it, she could barely hear it. “Fucking perfect.”
They sat next to each other on the couch and chitchatted for the next hour. This conversation was seamless. There were none of the awkward bumps and jolts from their first encounter. Emma stopped trying to lead the conversation and just let it unfold. They didn’t force it. They didn’t need to. She asked him about joining the family business. He told her about his four years in Naval Intelligence—what he could. His grandfather had insisted he have military experience—but not combat experience—before Nathan came to work for him. Nathan admitted he was apprehensive but felt compelled to serve. He said he almost considered a career in the military.
“I’m glad you didn’t. I would have worried about you.” She spoke the unconscious thought aloud. Nathan looked at her completely unruffled, almost pleased.
“That’s a nice thing to say.”
She thought about stumbling out some explanation, qualifying the comment, but the look on his face halted her. He didn’t think it was weird or awkward, so she left it. He set his glass on the table, the single ice cube slowly disappearing.
“What you said the other night at The Gotham.”
“I’m sorry for that. I was just so stunned.”
“You had every right to be stunned. My behavior was, well, as you said, unbecoming.”
“That was too harsh.”
“I needed to hear it.” He laughed to himself. “It took me hours to step back and see that from your perspective. I looked like such an ass.”
“I guess that happens when you’re irresistible.”
“Ah, but you resisted.”
“You seem to have recovered.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” He gave her a weighty stare, and she nervously reached for her drink as he blew out a sigh. He scooted a bit closer.
“All I could think when you were on your way over today was that I had more work. I mean, I was happy you were coming over, but I just felt,” he sighed, “out of gas. Then I opened the door to this.” He grabbed her ponytail at her nape and ran his hand down to the end. “It’s like you answered my prayers.”
Her answering smile spoke volumes. As if he didn’t want to betray her trust, he moved back a little and settled his hands on his knees, rubbing them gently over the worn denim.
“So. I’m an open book, Emma. Fire away.”
“That’s a horrible expression for a soldier to use.”
“Sailor, not soldier. Okay, shoot.”
She burst out laughing, barely swallowing a mouthful of scotch before it sprayed everywhere.