Chapter 9
Pregnancy made certain smells unbearable. Garlic disappeared from the house. Coffee disappeared next. Adrian, who had consumed four cups every morning for fifteen years, switched to tea without mentioning it.
Naomi noticed anyway.
“You can drink coffee.”
“You hate the smell.”
“I hate lots of things.”
“I’m learning that.”
At their next appointment, Dr. Monroe recommended ginger tea and small meals.
The following morning Adrian arrived carrying a breakfast tray himself.
Naomi stared.
“You have employees for this.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you holding oatmeal?”
“Because Mrs. Palmer put eggs on the first tray and you nearly got sick when you smelled them yesterday.”
“You noticed?”
His expression went dry.
“We have already established that I notice almost everything and communicate almost nothing.”
“Fair.”
He sat in the chair beside the bed.
Naomi tasted the tea.
It was perfect.
“One breakfast doesn’t repair three years.”
“No.”
He folded his hands.
“But today is made of breakfast. Tomorrow will require something else.”
She looked at him over the cup.
“Who taught you that?”
“No one.”
“That sounded suspiciously wise.”
“I’ve had an unpleasant amount of time to consider how badly I behaved.”
She smiled despite herself.
Adrian’s entire expression softened.
That smile became a dangerous thing between them.
Not because it erased the past.
Because it made hope possible.
A month after divorce day, Adrian attended Naomi’s museum exhibition.
He stood at the back.
No security men beside her.
No photographers directed toward him.
When a wealthy donor asked whether Naomi intended to stop restoring paintings after having the baby, Adrian answered before she could.
“My wife preserves things most people would have thrown away.”
Naomi looked at him.
The donor laughed. “That sounds useful in your household.”
For the first time, Adrian laughed too.
“More than you know.”
Then he stepped aside.
“Ask her about the painting. She’s the expert.”
It was such a small thing.
He did not make her achievement part of his reputation.
He did not speak over her.
He simply looked proud.
Later that night, Naomi found him in the kitchen attempting to make tomato soup.
He wore black pants, a fitted T-shirt, and one of her pale blue aprons.
She leaned against the doorway.
“Should I call security?”
He looked up.
“Why?”
“There’s an unidentified man in my kitchen threatening vegetables.”
Adrian glanced at the knife in his hand.
“The tomato is uncooperative.”
“You’re holding the knife wrong.”
“I have successfully handled knives for twenty years.”
“That sentence does not make me feel better.”
She walked over and repositioned his fingers.
The instant her hand covered his, the air changed.
Adrian became completely still.
Naomi felt his breath near her hair.
Seven weeks earlier, that closeness would have come with resentment, hunger, grief.
Now it came with a question.
He turned his head slightly.
“May I kiss you?”
Her pulse jumped.
The most powerful man she knew was waiting for a one-word answer.
Naomi turned toward him.
“Yes.”
He kissed her slowly.
No desperation.
No champagne.
No morning escape.
His hand touched her waist only after hers settled against his chest.
His heart hammered beneath her palm.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.
“You’re shaking,” Naomi whispered.
“Restraint is new for me.”
She laughed.
“You’re doing fine.”
“I dislike that word.”
“The terrifying Adrian Vale needs praise?”
“Constantly.”
She kissed him again.
The soup burned.
Neither cared.
Still, Naomi did not cancel the divorce.
That mattered.
She needed to know Adrian’s change would survive uncertainty.
May you like
He never asked when she intended to decide.
Then, six weeks after the hospital, the first real test came.
