Chapter 7 - THE DINER ETHAN COULD NOT BUY
I planned to fly home three days later.
That became two weeks.
Federal interviews.
Michael Keane’s testimony.
Isabel’s canceled lease because she had been living in Adrian’s condo.
Sophie caught a cold.
Then I discovered my diner back in L.A. had a plumbing leak.
Of course.
I called my manager, Rosa.
“How bad?”
“Bad.”
“How bad?”
“The floor is becoming a lake.”
I closed my eyes.
“Insurance?”
“Deductible.”
“How much?”
She told me.
I nearly cried.
Ethan sat across from me in the hotel suite.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You made the money face.”
“What money face?”
“The one where you calculate disaster.”
“I have no face.”
“You do.”
I pointed at him.
“Do not offer.”
“I wasn't.”
“You were breathing like someone about to purchase a building.”
He actually laughed.
“I was going to ask whether you need a contractor.”
“In Los Angeles?”
“I know people.”
“Of course you do.”
He gave me a number.
Licensed plumber.
No payment.
No ownership.
Just contact information.
I called.
The estimate was fair.
Annoyingly fair.
“You checked?” Ethan asked.
“Three competitors.”
He smiled.
“I would expect nothing less.”
I liked him.
That was becoming a problem.
Not because he was dangerous.
Because he kept making space where I expected pressure.
One night, Sophie woke screaming.
Teething.
I walked the hotel room for an hour.
A knock came.
Ethan.
Sweatpants.
Black T-shirt.
Hair messy.
For the first time, he looked thirty-six instead of legendary.
“What?”
“I heard her.”
“Welcome to motherhood.”
“Fatherhood seems easier.”
“You're not wrong.”
He held out a cold teething ring.
I stared.
“Why do you have that?”
“Mason has three kids.”
“So your security operation includes frozen baby products.”
“Very sophisticated.”
Sophie took it.
Stopped crying.
I nearly kissed him from gratitude.
I did not.
He noticed the thought anyway.
His eyes changed.
Dangerous.
Different danger.
“Rachel.”
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“Apparently everyone has faces now.”
I laughed.
Then Sophie grabbed his finger.
Ethan froze.
She stared at him.
He looked terrified.
I smiled.
“The King of Chicago defeated by six months and no teeth.”
“Tell no one.”
“Blackmail material.”
He stayed until Sophie slept.
Then we sat by the window.
Chicago below.
“You going back to L.A.?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Whenever federal agents stop asking whether my father kept additional evidence in cookware.”
“Reasonable question.”
“No.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“I could help you stay.”
There it was.
My guard rose.
“How?”
“Job. Apartment. Diner investment.”
“No.”
He nodded immediately.
“Okay.”
I blinked.
“That’s it?”
“You said no.”
I stared.
“People don't usually accept your no?”
“I’m learning.”
“From who?”
He looked at me.
I knew.
That frightened me more than if he flirted.
I looked away.
“My life is in Los Angeles.”
“Then go home.”
“You make that sound easy.”
“It isn't.”
Silence.
Then he said:
“I want you here.”
My breath caught.
“But I don't want you here because I solved enough problems that leaving feels ungrateful.”
That sentence changed something.
Maybe because he understood debt.
Maybe because he had spent his life creating it.
“I don’t know what this is,” I whispered.
“Neither do I.”
“Excellent mafia strategy.”
“I’m off duty.”
I laughed.
Two weeks later, Sophie and I flew home.
Commercial.
Economy plus.
Ethan offered his jet once.
I said no.
He did not ask again.
At the airport, Isabel hugged me.
She was moving into a small apartment and starting therapy.
Adrian had given a statement against his father.
They were not together.
Maybe never again.
Good.
Some love stories do not deserve immediate repair.
Ethan walked us to security.
People recognized him.
Pretended not to.
Sophie reached for him.
Traitor.
He took her.
Held her carefully.
Then handed her back.
“Call when you land.”
“Is that an order?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He looked at me.
“Rachel.”
“What?”
“I'm going to miss you.”
My heart hurt.
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“It is.”
I kissed his cheek.
His eyes closed briefly.
Then I walked away.
Halfway through security, my phone buzzed.
You forgot something.
I checked my bag.
Everything.
Then another message.
Ninety-seven dollars.
I frowned.
Then remembered our first argument.
Not the same story.
Different man.
I texted:
Wrong woman.
He replied:
Worth trying.
I laughed so hard the TSA agent looked concerned.
May you like
For the first time in years, going home did not feel like retreat.
It felt like a choice.
