Chapter 1 - For several seconds, I said nothing.
Not because I didn’t understand Hannah’s question.
Because I understood it too well.
“If I said I wanted nothing from you—not your money, not your protection, not your name—would you still want me sitting here?”
Across the café, my security chief, Victor Hale, had stopped beside the hostess stand.
Two more of my men remained near the entrance.
They knew better than to approach unless I signaled.
Hannah glanced toward them once.
Then back at me.
There was no admiration in her face.
No thrill.
No fascination with danger.
Just an expectation that I answer honestly.
It had been a long time since anyone expected honesty from me.
People around me usually preferred usefulness.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked.
She tilted her head.
“Because men who build their lives around being needed sometimes don’t know what to do with people who choose them freely.”
The answer landed harder than it should have.
I leaned back.
“You make a habit of psychoanalyzing strangers?”
“Only the intimidating ones.”
“You find me intimidating?”
“I’m not stupid.”
That almost made me smile.
She continued.
“Rachel told me you had security.”
“Rachel talks too much.”
“She said that too.”
I looked toward Victor.
He caught my eye.
I made a small motion with two fingers.
Give us distance.
He nodded and moved farther away.
Hannah noticed.
“You didn’t have to send them away.”
“They’re still here.”
“I know.”
“Does that bother you?”
“I haven’t decided.”
A server appeared with coffee and a tiered tray covered with pastries, sandwiches, fruit and things so carefully arranged they looked architectural.
Hannah stared.
“I said coffee.”
“I ordered food.”
“Yes. We covered that.”
She looked at the tray.
Then at me.
“Does anyone ever tell you no?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Rarely.”
“That sounds unhealthy.”
“For them or for me?”
“Both.”
She chose half a sandwich.
Not the smallest one.
Not the most expensive-looking one.
Just one.
“You’re judging the sandwich,” I said.
“I’m checking for decorative nonsense.”
“Decorative nonsense?”
“Microgreens.”
“There are microgreens.”
She sighed.
“I knew it.”
For the first time in longer than I wanted to admit, I laughed without thinking about who was watching.
Hannah looked pleased with herself.
That bothered me less than it should have.
We talked for nearly an hour.
At first, I kept expecting the real questions to begin.
How big was my house?
How many companies did I own?
Was the rumor about the private jet true?
Did politicians actually call me?
Instead Hannah asked why I stopped reading.
I hadn’t expected that.
“You said you used to love books,” she reminded me.
“I got busy.”
“That’s what people say when they stop doing something they don’t want to admit they miss.”
“I read reports.”
“That is one of the saddest sentences I’ve ever heard.”
“They’re important reports.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
I looked at her.
“You insult people professionally?”
“No. Mostly I help them fill out forms.”
“What kind?”
“Job applications. College aid. Housing assistance. Immigration paperwork when we have qualified volunteers.”
She paused.
“Sometimes people aren’t bad at life. They’re just exhausted by systems designed by people who never have to use them.”
The way she said it told me she had learned that personally.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
Her expression tightened.
“That’s direct.”
“You’re direct.”
“Fair.”
She looked into her coffee.
“My dad left when I was ten. My mother cleaned offices at night. I started working at fifteen.”
She said it without self-pity.
“My younger brother had dyslexia. School treated him like he was lazy until one teacher finally paid attention. That changed everything for him.”
“Where is he now?”
“Milwaukee. Married. Two kids. He repairs hospital imaging equipment and thinks he’s funnier than he is.”
“You’re close.”
“Very.”
Something strange tugged at me.
Family had never sounded that simple when I talked about mine.
My father had treated affection like a weakness best hidden behind expectation.
My mother had been gentle enough for both of them until cancer took her when I was twenty-three.
Rachel and I survived the rest by becoming opposites.
She left our father’s world.
I inherited it.
“So Bridge House came from your brother?” I asked.
“Partly.”
“Who funds it?”
Her mouth twisted.
“Poorly, at the moment.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The first money question.”
She frowned.
“I didn’t ask you for any.”
“I know.”
“That sounded disappointed.”
“It was curiosity.”
She studied me.
“Do you always assume people want something eventually?”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I warned you.”
“No. You gave me a résumé.”
I almost smiled again.
“Publicly acceptable version?”
“Very.”
She took another bite.
Then she set the sandwich down.
“So what’s the unacceptable version?”
The café seemed quieter.
Not actually.
Just to me.
“You know who I am?”
“Some of it.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Rachel told you?”
“She told me not to ask questions I wasn’t prepared to hear answers to.”
“That sounds like Rachel.”
“So I looked you up.”
I said nothing.
“Half the articles describe you as a businessman.”
“And the other half?”
“As someone people don’t cross.”
“Does that frighten you?”
She considered.
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised me.
“Then why did you come?”
“Because your sister asked me to.”
“That’s not enough.”
“No.”
She looked directly at me.
“Because she said you were lonely.”
I felt something inside me go still.
Rachel.
I was going to kill her.
Figuratively.
Probably.
Hannah continued before I could respond.
“She didn’t say pathetic. Don’t look offended.”
“I’m not offended.”
“You are very offended.”
“I’m considering changing my will.”
“See? Dramatic.”
Nobody called me dramatic.
Ever.
I looked away because I was too close to laughing again.
Hannah’s voice softened.
“She said you had spent so many years becoming difficult to hurt that you’d also become difficult to know.”
That was worse.
Not because it was insulting.
Because it sounded like Rachel.
Because it was probably true.
I glanced toward the windows.
A black SUV waited outside.
Victor stood near the hostess stand.
Every person in the room had given us more space than necessary.
That was my life.
Space.
Silence.
Accommodation.
I had spent decades making sure no one could corner me.
Then one day I woke up and realized no one stood close enough to know me either.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Hannah said.
I looked back at her.
Which question?
I knew.
Would I still want her there if she wanted nothing from me?
“Yes.”
She watched my face.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I’d still want you sitting here.”
“Why?”
I almost gave her something polished.
You’re interesting.
I enjoy your company.
I’d like to know you better.
All true.
All safe.
Instead I said, “Because you’re the first person in years who’s made me forget to check who was watching.”
Hannah didn’t smile.
Her expression softened.
“That’s a better answer.”
“Better than what?”
“Whatever one you almost gave me.”
I stared at her.
“You do that often?”
“What?”
“Know when people are lying.”
“No.”
She took another sip.
“Mostly I know when they’re editing.”
That was worse.
Much worse.
The date lasted three hours.
I canceled two meetings.
Victor sent me one message.
Everything okay?
I replied:
Yes.
Then, after considering how unbelievable that probably looked, added:
Do not call Rachel.
Victor responded:
Wasn’t planning to.
Which meant he absolutely had been planning to.
When Hannah finally stood, she looked toward the window.
“It’s raining.”
A hard spring storm had rolled over Chicago while we talked.
Water streaked across the glass.
“I’ll have someone drive you.”
Her expression immediately changed.
“No.”
“Hannah.”
“I take the bus.”
“It’s pouring.”
“I own an umbrella.”
“You walked four blocks because transportation failed once already today.”
“I survived.”
“There’s a car downstairs.”
“There are six cars downstairs.”
“Probably.”
She picked up her canvas tote.
“I appreciate the offer.”
“Then accept it.”
“No.”
My patience flickered.
That happened automatically when people resisted solutions.
Then I saw the way she was looking at me.
Not angry.
Waiting.
For me to hear what she had actually said.
I exhaled.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know you.”
Fair.
“And getting into a car with your employee means putting myself entirely inside your world before I’ve decided whether I trust you.”
I said nothing.
“That wasn’t meant to insult you.”
“It didn’t.”
That was almost true.
“You can walk me to the train if you want.”
I stared at her.
“The train?”
“Yes.”
“In this rain.”
“That is usually when umbrellas become useful.”
I should have said no.
I owned six vehicles within ten minutes of us.
There was a driver downstairs.
Another car across the street.
Instead, fifteen minutes later, I was walking toward the Red Line under an umbrella Hannah had bought at a pharmacy for twelve dollars.
It was too small for both of us.
My left shoulder was getting wet.
“You’re holding it wrong,” she said.
“I’ve held umbrellas before.”
“You’re six-foot-three and monopolizing the dry side.”
“I’m trying to keep you dry.”
“Well, now your shoulder is soaked.”
“I own other jackets.”
“That sentence summarizes your entire financial philosophy.”
I looked down at her.
“You have strong opinions.”
“I work at a nonprofit.”
“Meaning?”
“We run on strong opinions and donated printer paper.”
We reached the station.
Hannah stopped beneath the awning.
My car was idling half a block away because Victor had apparently decided my independence had limits.
She noticed.
“Is that yours?”
“No.”
She looked at me.
I sighed.
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Your security chief seems unconvinced by public transportation.”
“He has concerns.”
“So do I.”
The words sobered me.
She adjusted the tote on her shoulder.
“Thank you for coffee.”
“And food.”
“And your terrifying pastry tower.”
“You barely ate it.”
“I took two sandwiches.”
She opened her tote.
Wrapped in a café napkin were two small sandwiches.
I stared.
“For later?”
“For one of my students.”
“Student?”
“His mother works evenings. He pretends he isn’t hungry when tutoring runs late.”
Something shifted inside my chest.
“You stole sandwiches.”
“You paid for them.”
“That somehow makes me an accomplice.”
“Welcome to crime.”
I looked at her.
She froze.
For one second, both of us understood what she had just said.
Then Hannah covered her face.
“Oh, that was terrible.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
People passing us looked over.
I didn’t care.
She lowered her hand.
“You’re taking that better than expected.”
“You’re the one who compared sandwich theft to organized crime.”
“I panicked.”
“You should.”
“That sounded threatening.”
“It was about the joke.”
“I’m still learning your tone.”
Something about that sentence stayed with me.
Still learning.
As if there might be another date.
I looked at her.
May you like
“When can I see you again?”
Hannah blinked.
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