Page 151 of The Marriage Clause

Yes, sir. Cleanup crew at six. Plastic down before eight tomorrow.

Perfect.

Thanks for getting this done on short notice.

I pocket the phone.

The west wing bedroom with the north-facing windows will be finished by morning. Hardwood floors sealed against paint. A deep utility sink. Custom shelving. Enough light to make a woman who loves color stop in the doorway and forget what she was going to say.

And next to it, through the connecting hall, an apartment with a physical therapy room already fitted for Henry.

It’s not a someday promise. A real place for her to paint—for her father to be close and get the care he needs once they finally release him in a couple of years.

A future with walls around it to protect us for outside forces and she doesn’t know any of that yet. I want her to walk into it completely finished so she can see the vision I have. Not as a construction zone. Not as a plan. As proof.

That’s the thing about love languages. Mine apparently comes with contractors and invoices because I still don’t know how else to show a woman I intend to keep her. Or maybe that’s the more honest fear under all of this.

Not that I don’t want her enough. It’s that I do.

And I still don’t know whether wanting her and choosing her will be enough to keep her here once real life starts pressing in again.

She straightens and brushes her hands together. "Okay. I think that’s everything."

I look around the room. "You checked the drawers?"

She gives me a look. "Unlike you, I know how to leave a place without abandoning half my wardrobe."

"You found one sock behind the nightstand."

"I found two, actually. I was being merciful."

I nod once. "That was kind of you."

Her mouth twitches. Then she picks up the portfolio case, and I take it from her before she can protest.

"I’ve got it," I tell her.

"I can carry my own paintings."

"I’m aware."

"Then why are you carrying them?"

I hold her gaze. "Because I want to."

The answer stills her for half a second, and then she lets me take the case without another word.

The drive to the airstrip is quieter than the drive down was. Aria watches the coastline through the car window like she’s trying to memorize the light well enough to keep it. I let her have the silence because I know what this place became to her. Maybe even more clearly than she does.

By the time we board the jet, she seems quieter about leaving. It’s not resignation exactly. Just tucked back inside herself a little.

She takes the window seat and pulls out her sketchbook once we level off.

I open my laptop. Sixty-three unread emails.

I stare at them without opening a single one.

Board deck revisions. Penelope wants a meeting. Legal says urgent, which in Legal’s case means they’ve been ignoring it long enough that it’s now my problem. Zayne forwarded something with the subject line READ THIS BEFORE YOU LAND, which guarantees I won’t read it until at least Tuesday.