Chapter 6 - An Expedition to the Real World
The Mercer estate in the Hudson Valley was not a home; it was an eighty-acre demonstration of architectural dominance.
Built in the 1920s by an industrialist and acquired by Ethan’s company four years ago, the estate featured an expansive stone manor overlooking the river, surrounded by apple orchards, horse stables, and dense stands of sugar maples. Ethan used it twice a year for executive retreats, but this weekend, the corporate flags had been taken down.
On Friday afternoon, the black Suburban pulled up the long gravel driveway.
Luke was pressed against the tinted glass, his eyes wide. “Is this a castle?”
“It’s a house, Luke,” Ethan said from the front passenger seat. He had insisted on riding in the front next to Harold, while Claire and Luke took the middle row. “Though the maintenance costs are roughly equivalent to a medieval fortress.”
“Can we climb the trees?” Luke asked.
“The arborist inspects them quarterly,” Ethan noted. “The lower limbs on the maples should be structurally capable of bearing thirty-five pounds.”
Claire rolled her eyes from the back seat. “Translation: yes, you can climb the trees.”
The weekend was an experiment in deprogramming.
Away from the glass tower on Park Avenue, Ethan seemed out of his element in a way that Claire found utterly fascinating. Without the continuous hum of Manhattan and the proximity of his executive offices, he was forced to inhabit his own skin.
On Saturday morning, Claire found Ethan in the library, staring at a laptop screen while wearing a dark green waxed jacket and leather boots.
“Shut it down,” Claire said, standing in the doorway with two ceramic mugs of hot cider.
Ethan didn’t look up from the keyboard. “The acquisition of the boutique chain in Lisbon requires my sign-off on the currency hedging strategy.”
“The euro will survive until Monday,” Claire said. She walked over, set the mug down on his desk, and reached forward with one finger to physically press the laptop lid shut.
Ethan stared at the closed aluminum casing, then looked up at her, his expression a mixture of outrage and bemusement. “That was a multi-million-euro document.”
“And that,” Claire said, pointing out the leaded glass window, “is an apple orchard. Luke is waiting. He has a wicker basket and he informed me that he intends to harvest every single apple in North America.”
Ethan looked out the window. Down on the lawn, Luke was running in erratic circles, wearing a bright blue knit cap, chasing a golden retriever that belonged to the estate’s groundskeeper.
Ethan let out a long breath, picked up the cider, and stood. “You are an absolute tyrant, Claire.”
“I’m an educator,” she corrected with a wink. “Come on, Mercer. Let’s see your agricultural efficiency.”
The afternoon in the orchard was golden, crisp, and intoxicating. The autumn air smelled of crushed leaves, sweet rotting fruit, and woodsmoke from the estate’s chimneys.
Ethan, despite his initial reluctance, approached apple picking with the ruthless optimization of a supply-chain manager.
“You’re picking the bruised ones, Luke,” Ethan instructed, standing beneath a heavy-laden branch of Honeycrisps. “Look for uniform coloration. No insect boreholes. Twist at the stem; do not yank, or you damage the fruiting spur for next season.”
Luke reached up, grabbed a low-hanging apple, twisted it, and pulled it free with a satisfying *snap*. He held it up triumphantly. “I did the spur!”
“Good,” Ethan said, a rare warmth lighting his features. “Now put it in the basket. We need thirty more for an apple pie.”
“Can you make pie?” Luke asked, his eyes wide with skepticism.
Ethan hesitated. “No. But Miss Rowan claims she can.”
Claire laughed, sitting on an overturned wooden crate, her cheeks flushed pink from the crisp air. “Miss Rowan can make a magnificent pie, provided you two don't eat all the cinnamon before we start.”
By late afternoon, the sun was casting long, purple shadows across the grass. Luke had exhausted his four-year-old battery; he was sitting in the middle of a pile of dry maple leaves, yawning so widely his jaw clicked.
Ethan walked over, crouched down, and scooped the boy up into his arms. Luke didn't even protest; he laid his head against Ethan’s shoulder, his little muddy boots dangling against Ethan’s waxed jacket, and closed his eyes.
Claire walked beside them as they moved up the stone path toward the manor. The silence between them was easy now, stripped of the old hostility and suspicion.
“He likes it here,” Ethan said quietly, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.
“Children like space,” Claire said. “They like dirt. They like places that don’t break when they drop a toy.”
Ethan was quiet for several steps. “Maybe we spend more weekends here. I could… I could set up a satellite office in the carriage house.”
Claire smiled, looking up at him. “Or you could just set up a treehouse.”
Ethan glanced down at her, a wry smile touching his lips. “A treehouse requires municipal zoning permits in this county.”
“You’re hopeless, Mercer.”
“I’m compliant with local building codes, Miss Rowan.”
They reached the stone terrace. Ethan stepped inside, carrying Luke toward the grand staircase to put him down for a nap. Claire lingered on the terrace for a moment, looking out over the misty Hudson River.
When she finally walked inside to the great hall, Ethan was coming down the stairs. He had shed his jacket and boots; he was in stocking feet, his sleeves rolled up, his hair messy from the wind.
He stopped on the bottom step, looking at her.
The house was vast, quiet, and empty except for the two of them.
“He’s asleep,” Ethan said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register that always made Claire’s stomach flutter.
“Good,” Claire said, staying near the fireplace. “He worked hard today.”
Ethan walked toward her. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her, the firelight catching the gold threads in his brown hair, casting his gray eyes into deep, amber-edged pools.
“You look different out here,” Ethan said softly.
“Different how?”
“You don’t look like a nanny,” he murmured. His hand rose, his fingers gently brushing a stray dry leaf from her dark curls. His touch lingered, his fingers sliding through the hair at her temple. “You look like you belong here.”
Claire’s throat went dry. “Ethan… my contract has two weeks left.”
The words were meant to be a reminder, a defense mechanism, but they sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
Ethan didn't pull away. If anything, he stepped closer, his chest inches from hers. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the solid, unyielding reality of him.
“Contracts are legal fictions,” Ethan whispered, his eyes dropping to her mouth and staying there. “They only govern people who want an exit.”
“Do you want an exit?” Claire breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“No,” Ethan said, his voice raw, honest, and stripped of every defense he had ever built. “God help me, Claire. I haven't wanted an exit since the night you stood in my kitchen and told me I was afraid.”
And then, before Claire could draw another breath, Ethan leaned down and kissed her.
The kiss wasn't tentative. It was deep, hungry, and full of the desperate, restrained desire that had been building between them in the silent corridors of Park Avenue. His hand cupped the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her curls, pulling her flush against him.
Claire let out a small, helpless sound and reached up, her hands gripping the soft wool of his sweater, anchoring herself to him. His lips were warm, firm, and tasted of sweet cider and smoke. For one long, brilliant moment, the world stopped spinning. There were no dead brothers, no trauma, no balance sheets—only the heat of his mouth, the solid line of his body, and the terrifying certainty that she was falling completely, irreversibly in love with him.
When Ethan finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. Both of them were breathing hard, their breath mingling in the cool air of the hall.
His gray eyes were wide, dark, and stunned.
“Claire,” he whispered, his thumb trembling against her cheek.
Before she could speak, a small sound from the top of the stairs broke the spell.
*Thump. Thump.*
They both jumped back as if scalded.
Luke was standing at the landing in his sock feet, clutching his green frog, rubbing his eyes. “Uncle Ethan? I’m hungry for the pie.”
Ethan cleared his throat, his face flushing a dark, brilliant red that Claire had never seen on him before. He smoothed down his sweater with trembling hands.
“Right,” Ethan said, his voice cracking slightly before he regained his corporate composure. “Pie. The… Miss Rowan was just explaining the logistical requirements for the oven.”
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Claire covered her mouth with both hands, laughing quietly into her fingers, her heart singing a wild, dangerous song as she looked at the billionaire who was currently undone by a four-year-old and an apple pie.
***
