Chapter 4: Breaking Away

Caitlin's POV

Brad was everything my mom would approve of. He'd picked some trendy bistro in SoHo—the kind of spot where the waiters rocked suspenders and the menu was scribbled in chalk on a blackboard.

"So you're a lawyer," he said, slicing into his grass-fed steak with the precision of a surgeon. "That must be... intense."

"It has its moments." I took a sip of wine, eyeing him over the rim of my glass. He was handsome, successful, probably killer in bed. Everything a sensible woman should want.

So why do I feel absolutely nothing?

"I'm thinking about starting my own practice," he went on. "Corporate law, mostly. There's real money in mergers and acquisitions if you know the game."

I nodded at the right times, made the appropriate noises, flashed a smile when he cracked jokes about his golf handicap. But my mind kept wandering to empty coffee mugs and Italian takeout boxes labeled in that careful handwriting. To those gray eyes that saw right through me and hands that knew exactly how to make me forget my own name.

"...so I said to him, 'If you can't afford my retainer, you can't afford to divorce your wife!'"

Brad laughed at his own punchline, clearly waiting for me to join in. I managed a polite smile.

"That's... very practical."

Twenty minutes in, I knew I could never marry this guy. Hell, I couldn't even get through dinner without plotting a fake family emergency. He was perfectly nice, perfectly boring, and perfectly wrong for me in every way.

That's when I spotted ‌Patrick.

He strode into the restaurant like he owned it—which, knowing ‌Patrick, he probably did. His eyes scanned the dining room with that predatory focus before locking onto my table. Onto me.

Our gazes met across the crowded room, and a jolt of electricity crackled through the air. ‌Patrick's face stayed neutral, but I knew that look. I'd seen it in boardrooms when he was about to dismantle opposing counsel.

He picked a table two spots down from ours—close enough to eavesdrop on every word, far enough for plausible deniability.

"You okay?" Brad asked, following my stare. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine." But my voice came out tight. "That's just... someone from work."

‌Patrick ordered a scotch and pretended to study the menu, but his presence filled the place like smoke. Every time Brad spoke, I could feel ‌Patrick listening. Every time I laughed, I could sense ‌Patrick's jaw tightening.

What the hell is he doing here?

"...anyway, my dad thinks I should run for city council. Get some public service cred before I make a real play for politics."

"Mmhmm." I was barely listening now. All my focus was on the man two tables away, slowly nursing his drink and watching us like a hawk.

Brad's voice faded into white noise. The wine tasted like ash on my tongue. All I could think about was ‌Patrick's fingers drumming on his glass, his eyes burning holes in my back, his mere presence turning my perfectly pleasant dinner into some twisted game of psychological warfare.

Finally, Brad couldn't ignore it anymore.

"Okay, what's the deal?" He twisted in his chair, getting his first good look at ‌Patrick. "Is that guy bothering you? Because I can—"

"No," I cut in quickly. "It's nothing. He's just... persistent."

But Brad was already on his feet, probably seeing this as his big white-knight moment. "Maybe I should go talk to him."

"Brad, sit down." Too late. ‌Patrick had caught the movement, and now he was staring us down with those cold gray eyes that could cut glass.

Brad faltered under that glare. I watched his confidence evaporate like morning mist.

"You know what," Brad muttered, sinking back into his seat and waving for the check, "I just remembered I have an early meeting tomorrow. Rain check?"

He bolted within five minutes, leaving me alone with my half-eaten meal and the man who'd just scared off my perfectly adequate date without uttering a word.

‌Patrick waited exactly thirty seconds before sliding into the chair across from me.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Would it matter if I said no?"

He sat anyway, his long fingers curled around his scotch glass. Up close, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his mouth.

"Enjoying your evening?" His tone was casual, but it didn't fool me.

"I was."

"He seemed... nice."

"He was nice. Boring as hell, but nice."

‌Patrick's lips twitched in a ghost of a smirk. "Then why'd you look like you were mapping out an escape route?"

Because he wasn't you, I thought, shoving the dangerous idea away.

"What do you want, ‌Patrick?"

He went quiet for a long beat, studying my face like I was a tricky legal brief he needed to crack.

"Do you have feelings for me?"

The question hit like a slap—direct, brutal, classic ‌Patrick, cutting straight to the core.

"No," I said without missing a beat. "Never. This is just an arrangement, right?"

His eyes searched mine, probing for weaknesses. "You really don't love me?"

"I really don't."

But he wasn't done. ‌Patrick leaned in, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous rumble that always spiked my pulse.

"Then explain something. You fell asleep curled up against my chest—wasn't that love?"

"I was tired."

"And the way you smile at me when I ignore you at the office? When I'm a total asshole to you in front of the other partners?"

"Professional courtesy."

"The birthday gift." His voice roughened, turning raw. "You spent weeks picking out that watch. Even after I tossed it, you didn't say a word."

I kept my tone steady, clinical. "Just investing in keeping things smooth."

‌Patrick stared at me for a long moment, then slowly stood. I thought he was leaving. Instead, he circled the table until he was right beside my chair, close enough that I could smell his cologne, feel the heat rolling off him.

"Let me tell you what I feel," he said softly. "When I saw you with him tonight, it felt like a knife twisting in my chest. Is that love?"

"That's possessiveness."

"When I picture you with other guys, I want to punch through walls. Is that love?"

"That's your ego talking."

"When you don't show up at the office, I worry you've been in an accident. Is that love?"

"That's guilt. You're my boss."

‌Patrick let out a humorless laugh. "You've got an answer for everything, don't you?"

"You're mistaking habit for emotion," I said coolly. "You're used to me being available. When that's threatened, you react."

But ‌Patrick wasn't listening anymore. His eyes went distant, like he was reliving a memory.

"Six months ago," he said slowly, "I was heading back from court and spotted you at that food truck near the courthouse. You were chowing down on some greasy burrito, laughing—really laughing—at whatever the vendor said. Not that fake office smile. And for a second, you looked... free. Happy. It gutted me, because I'd never seen you look that way with me."

A cold knot twisted in my stomach, but I shoved it down.

"That's not love, ‌Patrick. That's pity."

"No." His voice cracked just a little. "That's when I knew."

Before I could process it, his hands cupped my face, and I saw tears welling in his eyes. ‌Patrick Blake—the guy who'd never shown weakness, never lost his cool, never let anyone see him as anything but unbreakable—was crying.

"I love you, Caitlin." The words tumbled out, broken and desperate. "I love you, I love you, I love you..."

He pulled me against his chest, holding me so tight I could barely breathe, his face buried in my hair as he repeated those words like a mantra, a confession, a drowning man's last gasp.

Then, suddenly, he froze.

"Oh God," he whispered. "I love you. But you... you don't love me."