Page 134 of Babies for the Big Shot
Helaughs.
A real one. Low. Warm. Head tilted back slightly.
“You’re never going to survive here, are you?”
“I’m trying,” I mutter.
“Let me make you dinner. Make it up to you.”
Honestly, it sounds suspiciously like a bribe, but I’m too emotionally fried and physically damp to argue. So I nod and go put on real clothes before I flash another security team.
By the time I return, wearing clean leggings and one of Nick’s hoodies that swallows me whole in the best way, the penthouse has mostly returned to normal. The lights are no longer screamingDEFCON 1, and Meatball is curled on the couch, acting all innocent.
Nick is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, tie discarded, sautéing something in a pan with the easy competence of a man who either actually cooks or just had Gordon Ramsay personally train him as a hobby.
It smells of garlic and lemon and olive oil, and I suddenly remember that I haven’t eaten anything today besides prenatal vitamins and half a banana I found in my purse.
“You’re an enigma,” I mutter, leaning against the counter. “Who panic-proofs their own home and also makes a perfect sear on salmon?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “I like order. And dinner.”
I snort. “Weird flex, but okay.”
While he plates things with surgical precision (there’s garnish involved), I wander a little. Not snooping. Just… observing with mild curiosity and a keen sense of spatial confusion.
There’s almost nothing personal in the penthouse. No clutter. No fridge magnets. No junk drawer full of expired coupons and half-dead batteries. It’s all sharp edges and expensive lighting and that unsettling feeling you get inside a high-end art gallery where everything is beautiful and off-limits.
But then, tucked on a minimalist shelf behind a pane of glass, I see it.
A photo.
Real, not digital. Framed in brushed silver. And totally out of place.
It’s Nick.
Younger, maybe ten years? He’s standing on a sun-drenched patio, laughing happily, in jeans and a T-shirt. His arm is around a woman.
She’s beautiful.
Tall, elegant, with dark curly hair and that kind of effortless, glowy confidence that makes my bones feel… shapedwrong.
They look… close.
Too close.
I stare at it for a second longer than I should.
“Who’s this?” I ask as casually as I can manage as he sets two plates down.
Nick looks over his shoulder. His expression shutters instantly.
And I meanshutters. As if someone pulled the blinds on his whole face.
“Just… someone I knew a long time ago.”
Justsomeone?
Cool. Vague. Normal.
