The morning felt deceptively calm. The storm had cleared, leaving New York scrubbed raw and shining, sunlight spilling in harsh angles across the penthouse floor. I thought maybe the air itself had been reset, that the heaviness of last night, the almost-touch, the almost-kiss, could be shaken off like the rain. But I should have known better—storms never really pass in my world, they just wait for the next crack of thunder.

Nate had disappeared into his study again, buried in phone calls, ...