Chapter 6 - Morning Light on Boston Harbor
The sun rose the next morning over a washed, gleaming Boston Harbor. The storm had blown itself out during the night, leaving behind a crisp, brilliant November sky that made the slate-gray water sparkle like crushed diamonds.
I stood on the private stone balcony off the master study, wrapped in a heavy wool throw blanket, sipping my second cup of black coffee.
Footsteps approached softly behind me.
Leo stepped out onto the balcony, wearing a fresh gray cashmere sweater, holding a warm cinnamon biscotti on a small silver saucer. He didn't say a word; he simply held the saucer out toward me, stepping up beside me to lean against the stone balustrade.
I took the biscotti, a small smile playing at the corners of my mouth. “You’re stealing my breakfast again.”
“Consider it rent,” Leo said softly, looking out over the harbor toward the shipping docks where the red-and-white container ships were already moving with orderly, rhythmic precision. “Federal marshals picked up the remaining Apex operatives in Providence three hours ago. The board of directors has been... reorganized. Kelletti Maritime is officially clean.”
I took a bite of the biscotti, the sweet cinnamon taste grounding me against the surreal reality of the past twenty-four hours. “And what about your uncle’s loyalists?”
“Gone,” Leo said simply. “Either in federal custody or halfway to Nova Scotia. The house is secure, Maeve. Nobody will ever track you through these gates again.”
I turned my head to look at him, studying the clean lines of his profile against the morning light. The dark bruises under his eyes were gone, replaced by a quiet, settled peace I had never seen in him before.
“Does this mean I have to go back to scrubbing baseboards?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Leo turned his head, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the cold morning air feel suddenly warm. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my cheek.
“You can scrub whatever you want,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register. “As long as you stop calling yourself my maid.”
“What should I call myself?” I asked, my heart doing a strange, fluttering acrobatics routine against my ribs.
Leo smiled, a genuine, completely unguarded expression that completely transformed his face.
“My partner,” he said quietly. “Provided, of course, you agree to a proper dinner date tonight. Somewhere without kidnappers, tracking logs, or cast-iron skillets.”
May you like
I laughed, leaning my shoulder against his chest as the morning sun warmed our faces.
“It’s a deal,” I said, and for the first time in three years, the grandfather clock inside the grand foyer felt like it was keeping time for us.
