“The best divorce attorney in the city doesn’t want to divorce people?”
It’s a struggle not to grin, so I cock my brow. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”
She shrugs and then rests her hand on the side of my neck. The caress of her thumb causes my eyelids to dip briefly, savoring her touch and the comfort between us.
Reciprocating, I touch her cheek with the same care. “I’ve been thinking about your dream.”
“Which dream is that?” she asks with her thoughts elsewhere.
Before this conversation moves to the bedroom, I reply, “The dream to help kids. What do you think about setting up a foundation?”
She leans back, her eyes wide. The dots have connected. “To help kids find homes and provide meals—”
“And the training and after-school programs. I’ve been talking to my mom, and it’s something she could help us set up. She has experience working with charities. Add in your trained skill set and I think it would work. You could develop it from the ground up, getting the right people in place to help it grow.”
Slipping away, Tealey walks through the living room to the window. She rests against the sill, still facing me, her thoughts pinching her brows together. “I don’t understand, Rad. You’re giving up your career to help me?”
“I still might work, just not as much. I like my career. I just hate the hours. But it became even more apparent when Misty’s paperwork came through a couple of days ago that I really liked that. I liked helping her, protecting her. I’d like to do more of that sort of thing with my time.”
I come closer, wedging between her legs and rubbing her shoulders. “You could stop commuting to Poughkeepsie three days a week and follow a different dream.”
Her expression softens. “Misty’s studying to be a social worker in Philly.”
“Because you inspire people.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but setting up a nonprofit takes money, Rad. A lot of money. If you aren’t working—”
“I’ll be working, but you’ve always known that I come from money. I have trust funds.”
Cupping her ear, she leans closer. “Did I hear an S, as in plural?”
I chuckle. “Yes, six of them, and only one’s been touched.” Taking her hand, I turn it over and then lean down to kiss her palm, worried how she’ll react to the next part. I suck in a breath. “I lied to you.”
Her hand is yanked back, and I’m struck with a glare. “Rad . . .”
She doesn’t have to say more. The tone gets her message across loud and clear. White knuckling the windowsill, she asks, “What is it?” I was trying to avoid worrying her.
I start talking faster. “I got notice that the third-floor tenant is moving out.”
She tilts her head, worry turning into interest. “I’m not following.”
There are reasons I never shared the history of my inheritances or about the building. Simply put, I didn’t want to be treated any differently. But she’s going to find out one day, so I might as well confess. “It’s a small lie by omission. I know that counts but hear me out.”
She sighs heavily. “Tell me.”
“I own the building.”
Unblinking, she stares at me for a disconcerting number of seconds. Maybe it’s been minutes. I scratch the back of my neck nervously. Not able to bear the silence, I finally ask, “What are you thinking?”
“I just . . . Um . . .” She directs her gaze out the window, blocking me from reading what’s on her mind. When her eyes return to mine, she asks, “Since when?”
“Since college. I bought it with some of the money from one of my trust funds.”
“Oh, right, the plural amount of trust funds . . . there’s nothing normal about that, just so you know.”
“It is in my world.” I tuck her hair behind her ears. “Our world.”
“You say that like I blend in with your world with such ease,” she says in disbelief.
“You do. You fit right in. You’ve become it. You’re my whole world.”
Another soft sigh escapes her, but a smile graces her face. “I feel the same about you, but I didn’t realize how much you were worth.”
Nothing I can say will make her feel more comfortable about never having to worry about money. She’s lived her entire life doing the opposite. She asks, “How much does that apartment rent for?”
I grin. “Are you in the market?”
“I can’t afford your spare bedroom,” she deadpans. Her hand covers her mouth, hiding most of her pretty smile from me. “So, I know I can’t afford a full-floor apartment in this neighborhood or any apartment in the city.” I breathe easier when all signs of concern disappear from her features. “But I am curious.”
“Ten thousand.”
Her mouth falls open. “A month?” Stumbling back, she catches herself on the frame of the window. “Good lord, Rad. You’re rich rich. Richie Rich rich. Rockefeller rich.”