Page 56 of Sealing the Deal

Grayson smiles, and there’s a glint of something in his eyes that reminds me of the first time he walked into my bar and asked me for help. “Of course I do.”

I shrug like it’s no big deal, but inside, a fire is burning. I’ve loved the Stormhawks for as long as I can remember. To have even a small part in saving them feels like a dream come true.

An hour later, having eaten the most buttery, flaky, and delicious croissant I’ve ever tasted, we’re standing on a cracked sidewalk in East Harlem, the cold biting at my cheeks as I take in my surroundings. Apartment buildings rise on either side, brick facades stained dark with age and exhaust fumes. Some windows are boarded up. Litter gathers in the gutters—flyers, coffee cups, a single lost sneaker. One street over, there’s the sounds of the steady flow of traffic and blasting horns. The neighborhood feels tired and forgotten. And yet, among it all stands one building that looks completely different. Clean lines. Fresh paint. Wide windows. Planters along the entrance overflowing with winter-hardy greenery.

“This is one of my latest projects.” I don’t miss the pride in his tone as we walk down the street. “When I’m done, every apartment building will look like that one. Beautiful housing people can afford. I’ve got a playground coming and a park overhaul, plus rooftop community gardens where people can grow their own food.”

His passion is contagious. “It’s really something,” I say, taking it in. There’s none of the flash or show of Grayson’s earlier buildings I saw when I searched his company. But there’s a clean beauty to it.

An older woman passes us, bundled up against the cold. She spots Grayson and lifts her hand in greeting. “Thank you for asking the workmen to take their lunch break at one, Mr. Ashborne⁠—”

“Grayson, please, Mrs. Ortiz,” he says easily.

“Grayson,” she repeats with a smile. “It’s meant my granddaughter gets her nap undisturbed.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replies. “Send me a message if you need anything else.”

She walks on, and Grayson gestures across the street to a single-story brick building wedged between two apartment blocks. Its exterior is tired and there’s ivy creeping up one side, graffiti on the other, windows boarded up. “This is what I really wanted to show you.”

His hand rests lightly on my lower back as we cross the street, heat burning from his touch.

He pulls out a key and unlocks the large wooden doors. “Be careful. It’s a real mess in here. The place has been abandoned and boarded up for years.”

Inside, the space opens. Dust motes drift in the air, caught in pale light spilling through cracked windows high up on the walls above thick wooden beams that stretch across the width of the building. The noise of the city fades, like the world has paused outside these walls.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, breathing in air that smells faintly of old books and dust.

“It will be,” he says softly. “Once the original features are restored.”

“What was this place?”

“It used to belong to the church on the next street over. It was an extra space they used for community events. But it fell into disrepair and they didn’t have the money to keep it going.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“The obvious choice is to divide it into luxury apartments. But that does nothing for the community. This space should serve them. So, I’m keeping it as a community center,” he replies without hesitation. “Meetings. Pop-up shops. Anything the neighborhood needs. Dylan’s work with the Stormhawks outreach program really got me thinking about how much difference you can make if you reach kids early. I’ve already contacted the residents to offer funding for youth groups.”

I turn to face Grayson. He hasn’t noticed the layer of dust coating his shoes. All he sees in this building is potential and hope. I take a step and my boot catches on the uneven stone floor, and before I can right myself, the world tilts and with a yelp, I’m falling.

Then, just as suddenly, I’m not. Grayson catches me, one firm hand at my waist, the other braced against my back. He holds me easily, not letting go even when I’m steady on my feet again.

He leans close and whispers in my ear. “I did tell you to be careful.”

I laugh under my breath. “You know you don’t have to save us all, right?”

He nods, his arms staying wrapped around me. I can feel the heat of him through my coat, the strength in his arms, the way his thumb brushes absently against my side.

“One clumsy bar owner at a time,” he says, eyes dark with amusement and something else that lights a fire through me.

“I mean it,” I say softly. “You have to think about yourself, too.”

He tilts his head, studying me with a familiar intensity. Then a slow, dangerous smile curves his mouth. “There’s no room in my head to think about anyone but you.”

“Cheesy,” I whisper, smiling back.

“True.”

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The world outside the building feels very far away. His hands slide a little higher, mine resting against his chest without quite remembering how they got there. And then he leans in.