Chapter 2: The Man in the Shadows

Mary Rose POV

Thomas Gray's hand is still holding mine, and I'm beginning to suspect he knows exactly what that contact is doing to my nervous system. His thumb traces a small circle against my wrist deliberate or unconscious, I can't tell but the touch sends heat spiraling through my veins like expensive wine on an empty stomach.

"I've been following your work," he says, and I force myself to focus on his words instead of the way his voice seems to resonate in my chest. "Not just the portfolio you submitted. I looked at everything your Instagram, the features in Manhattan Bride, that beautiful piece you did for the Times about photographing grief."

My brain stutters over the implications. "You read my essay?" That article took me six months to write, pouring out everything I'd learned about capturing loss and love through a lens. Twelve people commented on it. I didn't think anyone actually read past the headline.

"Twice," Thomas admits, finally releasing my hand. The loss of contact feels like punishment. "You wrote that the best wedding photographers aren't selling happiness they're documenting the courage it takes to promise forever in a world that guarantees nothing." His steel-blue eyes hold mine with uncomfortable intensity. "That's exactly what I want for the couples who celebrate here. Someone who understands that love isn't ignorance of pain it's defiance of it."

I should say something professional. Thank him for the opportunity, maybe, or discuss shot lists and timeline logistics. Instead, I hear myself ask, "Why does a billionaire real estate mogul care so much about wedding photography?"

His laugh is low and surprised, transforming his austere features into something dangerously attractive. "Most people don't ask me questions like that."

"Most people probably aren't stupid enough to risk offending their biggest client." The words escape before my filter catches them, and I watch his eyebrows rise with what looks like delighted approval.

"I own seven luxury wedding venues across the East Coast," Thomas says, gesturing for me to walk with him deeper into the manor. "Each one books out two years in advance at rates that would make your eyes water. And you want to know why I care?" His hand settles on my lower back as we move through the foyer, the touch light but unmistakably possessive. "Because Catherine died before I could give her the wedding she deserved. So now I make sure every bride who walks through my doors gets the celebration my wife never had."

The raw honesty in his voice makes my throat tight. I stop walking, turning to face him fully. "That's the most heartbreaking thing I've ever heard."

"Is it?" He's standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and I'm acutely aware of how much larger he is not threatening, but overwhelming in a way that makes me feel simultaneously protected and vulnerable. "I think it's hopeful. Building something beautiful from loss. Choosing creation over destruction."

"That's very philosophical for a real estate developer."

His mouth curves into a smile that does illegal things to my pulse. "I contain multitudes, Miss Bennett. You'll discover that about me."

The confidence in his voice the certainty that I'll be around long enough to discover anything about him should irritate me. Instead, it sends anticipation shivering down my spine.

We continue through the manor, and Thomas proves to be an excellent tour guide, pointing out architectural details and sharing stories about the restoration process. But it's the casual touches that are destroying my professional composure his hand at my elbow when we navigate a step, his palm against my back when he guides me through doorways, the way his fingers brush against mine when he hands me information packets.

Each touch lingers just long enough to be deliberate. Just long enough to make me wonder if I'm imagining the heat in his eyes or if Thomas Gray is flirting with me while discussing floor plans and vendor coordination.

"The Hartley wedding," he says as we enter the portrait gallery, a long hall lined with family photographs spanning generations. "Your shot of the bride's father during the ceremony. I've never seen someone capture that particular expression the pride and grief of giving away a daughter. How did you know to focus on him instead of the bride?"

I pause before answering, studying a photograph of a young woman in 1920s wedding attire. "Because everyone photographs the bride. She's the obvious subject, the expected choice. But if you watch the father, you see the real story the man who's been her hero since birth realizing she's found a new one. It's beautiful and terrible and the most honest moment of any wedding."

When I turn back to Thomas, he's watching me with an expression I can't decipher. "You see people," he says quietly. "Really see them. That's rare."

"So do you." The words slip out before I can stop them, but they're true. Thomas Gray sees me in a way that makes me feel transparent and valued simultaneously. It's terrifying.

We've stopped in front of a large portrait, and I realize with a start that it's Catherine Gray. She was beautiful dark hair, warm eyes, the kind of smile that makes you want to smile back. But it's the way Thomas looks at the painting that breaks something in my chest. There's love there, yes, but also acceptance. The grief of a man who's made peace with loss without forgetting what he lost.

"She would have liked you," Thomas says, surprising me. "Catherine always said the best photographers were the ones who understood that every picture tells a story about both love and loss."

"That's what you said earlier," I point out, my voice softer than intended. "About my work."

"Because you remind me of her in that way. The ability to find beauty in complexity. To not shy away from the hard truths." He turns to face me fully, and the vulnerability in his eyes makes my breath catch. "I've been functional since Catherine died. I've built businesses and raised Emma and done everything grief demanded while feeling like half a person going through motions." He pauses, and when he continues, his voice is rough. "And then you walked through my door this morning, and for the first time in five years, I felt something other than numb."

I should step back. Create distance. Remind us both that I'm here for a job, not to be his salvation from grief. But my traitorous body sways forward instead, drawn to him like gravity.

"Thomas," I whisper, not sure if it's a warning or a plea.

His hand rises, and for a moment I think he's going to touch my face. Instead, his fingers hover inches from my cheek, close enough that I can feel the heat of his skin but not actual contact. "Tell me I'm alone in this," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me you don't feel it too, and I'll step back. We'll be professional and appropriate, and I'll never mention this conversation again."

But I can't. God help me, I can't lie when his eyes are burning into mine and my entire body is aching for contact I know I shouldn't want.

"I feel it," I admit, the confession feeling like jumping off a cliff. "I feel it, and it's completely inappropriate, and I should leave right now before this becomes more complicated than it already is."

"But you won't leave." It's not a question. Thomas's hand finally makes contact, his knuckles brushing against my jaw in a touch so gentle it makes my eyes sting. "Because you're curious. Because you felt something shift when we shook hands, and you want to know what happens if we stop fighting this."

"This is insane." My voice shakes, but I don't pull away from his touch. "We met an hour ago. I don't even know you."

"Then let's fix that." His thumb traces my lower lip, and the intimate gesture makes my knees weak. "Have coffee with me. Talk to me. Let me take you to dinner somewhere we can actually have a conversation without pretending it's about business."

"That's a terrible idea."

"Probably." His smile is slow and devastating. "But I stopped making safe choices when Catherine died and I realized life's too short to live carefully." He steps back, creating space that feels like loss, and straightens his suit with the casual confidence of a man who knows he's already won. "Or we could discuss the contract in my private study. Get the business out of the way first, then decide what happens next."

I know what the smart choice is. The conference room, professional distance, clear boundaries between client and photographer. But Thomas is already moving toward the curved staircase that leads to the upper floors, and I'm already following him, my camera bag feeling heavier with each step that takes me further from safety.

His study is clearly his sanctuary floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, leather furniture that looks butter-soft, and shelves lined with first editions and family photographs. It's intimate in a way the public spaces weren't, and the click of the door closing behind us sounds like a line being crossed.

"Have a seat," Thomas says, gesturing to the chairs by his desk. But when I move toward them, he adds, "Or the couch. We don't have to be formal."

The couch. Where the late afternoon light streams through windows and the city sprawls below us like we're gods surveying our kingdom. Where sitting together would put us close enough to touch, close enough to make the attraction crackling between us impossible to ignore.

"The desk is fine," I manage, watching something like disappointment flicker across his face before professional composure slides back into place.

He settles behind the massive mahogany desk, and even that creates a problem because now I'm watching his hands move across papers, remembering how his touch felt against my skin, wondering what it would feel like to have those strong fingers exploring more than just my jaw.

"The Wellington-Morrison wedding is eight weeks out," Thomas begins, his voice shifting into business mode even as his eyes stay hot on mine. "Full ceremony and reception, three hundred guests, unlimited timeline for photography. Your fee is fifty thousand, with half up front and half upon delivery of final images."

"That's generous." More than generous. It's almost double my usual rate.

"You're worth it." The way he says it makes me wonder if we're still talking about photography. "I've also included a clause for additional events engagement parties, rehearsal dinners, anything the couple might want documented. All optional, all at your discretion."

He slides the contract across the desk, and when I reach for it, his fingers brush against mine. The touch is brief but electric, and from the way Thomas's jaw tightens, he feels it too.

I force myself to read the contract, even though my brain is struggling to process legal language when my body is screaming at me to jump across this desk and find out if kissing him would be as devastating as I'm imagining.

"This looks standard," I say, proud that my voice sounds almost normal. "I'll have my lawyer review it and get it back to you by end of business tomorrow."

"Or you could trust me and sign it now." Thomas leans back in his chair, and the movement draws my attention to his body the broad chest, the athletic build his expensive suit can't quite hide, the casual power in every line of him. "I promise I'm not trying to cheat you, Mary Rose. I want you here for the next eight weeks, working on this wedding and getting to know me. That's all."

"That's not all." The words escape before I can stop them, honesty overriding self-preservation. "You want more than a photographer."

His eyes darken, heat flaring so intensely I feel it across the space between us. "Yes," he admits, his voice dropping into a register that makes my thighs clench. "I want more than a photographer. I want to take you to dinner. I want to hear about your life and your dreams and what made you choose to document other people's happiness instead of pursuing your own. I want" He stops, seeming to struggle for control. "I want to know if this thing between us is real or just my imagination making connections that don't exist."

"It's real." I shouldn't admit it. Shouldn't encourage whatever this dangerous attraction is becoming. But I'm tired of lying, tired of pretending I don't feel the pull between us like a living thing. "But that doesn't mean we should act on it."

"Why not?"

"Because you're my client. Because this is the biggest commission of my career, and I can't risk losing it because we couldn't keep our hands to ourselves. Because" I stop, the real reason lodging in my throat like broken glass.

"Because someone hurt you," Thomas finishes quietly, his perception cutting through my defenses like they're paper. "Someone made you believe that wanting something means inevitably losing it."

The accuracy of his observation makes my eyes sting with tears I refuse to shed. "You don't know me well enough to make those kinds of assumptions."

"Then prove me wrong." He stands, moving around the desk with predatory grace that makes my pulse spike. "Have dinner with me tonight. Let me buy you the most expensive meal in Manhattan while we discuss art and philosophy and absolutely nothing related to this wedding. If I'm wrong about you, about us, you'll know by dessert. And if I'm right" He stops inches away, close enough that I can smell his cologne, close enough that tilting forward would bring my lips to his chest. "If I'm right, we'll figure out what happens next. Together."

I should refuse. Every rational cell in my brain is screaming at me to maintain professional distance, to protect myself from potential disaster. But Thomas Gray is looking at me like I'm the answer to questions he didn't know he was asking, and I'm so tired of being careful.

"One dinner," I hear myself say, my voice barely steady. "But we split the check, and you understand that this doesn't change our professional relationship."

His smile is slow and triumphant and absolutely devastating. "Of course, Miss Bennett. Strictly professional." The way he says it makes clear that nothing about what's building between us will ever be strictly anything.

And I'm already in so much trouble.