We Have Till Dawn

He inclined his head. “That makes sense.” He closed his eyes as I kept weaving my fingers through his hair.

Why did our little outings always end up with the heaviest topics? Couldn’t I just enjoy one evening out where I pretended we were on a date? Jeesh.

I drained half my beer and scrambled for something easier to talk about.

I guess since he and I definitely weren’t happening, I might as well ask who he really was. His family spending decades building New York gave a hint or two.

“So, I take it you’re from one of the real estate families that built the city,” I said.

He hummed. “Are you asking for my last name?”

“Yeah, I reckon I am.”

“Grant.”

Holy shit. Gideon Grant IV. His last name appeared on skyscrapers—or at least two—and he fucking owned the building I was currently staying in. Funnily enough, they owned a shitload of property here in Brooklyn, too. They’d been part of the transformation of Williamsburg in the nineties, when artists and spoiled rich kids replaced a lot of the guidos and micks such as myself.

“I’m picturing you bored out of your mind in some skyscraper boardroom day in and day out.”

The corners of his mouth twisted up. “You’re not far off. I have a right-hand man who functions as my filter and barrier, and somehow, I still end up in several meetings a day—and God knows with how many final approvals and signatures. Hardly what one might call an inspiring job.” He furrowed his brow but didn’t open his eyes. “If my cousins and nephew offered to buy me out, I’d probably consider it.”

So how the fuck did he think he was gonna find satisfaction in the vision of his own future? Right now, there was a door he could walk out of. Once he got married and his wife had squeezed out a couple kids, the same door would be locked and bolted, and if he wanted to escape, he’d have to join the sorry band of married closet cases who sought out sex workers on the sly.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I suggested. “I told Camila and her girls that you’re my hot date, so start acting like you might score tonight.”

He grinned a little at that and cracked one eye open at me. “Are you telling me there’s a chance you might invite me to your place?”

I leaned in and kissed him softly. “Definitely.”

He hummed and kissed me back. “I’m all yours until six AM. That’s when I have to walk Chester.”

“Chester.”

“My dog.”

I grinned into another kiss. “Of fucking course his name is Chester. Is it a golden retriever or a Schnauzer?”

He huffed and pulled away from me, and he stuck a hand inside the inner pocket of his suit. “I’m glad not everything about me is predictable, Mr. Profiler.” He pulled out his phone. “Chester is a Havershire, a mix between Yorkshire terrier and Havanese.”

Weren’t they tiny?

Gideon’s screen flashed to life, and there it was. The background picture was of a dog, but he didn’t stay there. He went to his photo album instead and clicked on another photo.

What a cute fur ball. Definitely a lap dog. Its white-and-brown coat pointed in every direction, and dirt and leaves were stuck to his legs. The soft-looking ears let me know Gideon didn’t mess around with grooming. I bet he took the dog to some overpriced dog stylist.

“We have a dog walker in my building who takes him out a couple times every day, but I try to make it home for mornings and evenings,” he murmured, swiping to another picture. “His favorite pastimes are making a complete mess of himself in the park, cuddling up on my lap when I read, and listening to my daily work ramblings. Or so I hope. Otherwise, I’m a horrible owner.”

I shifted my gaze to Gideon’s face instead. It was the first time I could see him with a kid. He truly loved that dog, and I supposed it made sense. I’d read in one of the books I’d borrowed that autistic people sometimes connected easier with children and pets than other adults.

“I’ve been thinking about adopting a brother for him,” Gideon admitted. He was lost in his own photo album, going from one picture to another. It seemed the whole album was filled with images of Chester. “It would have to be one who got along with Chester, though. He’s very active when we’re outside, but the minute we come home, he wants to sleep or take it easy on my lap.” He grinned fondly. “Sometimes he’ll nip at the bottom of my pants and run toward the living room or the library. It’s his way of telling me I’ve been on my feet for too long.”

Cazzo, I was gonna fall for this fucker before our arrangement was over.