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Crisp autumn air kisses my cheeks as I emerge from the brownstone alone into the glowing Manhattan morning. Last week’s boat date still echoes disjointedly in my memory. The earth-shattering orgasm on the deck while Manhattan skylights glid past, the endless conversation, and the budding sense that Jack and I were for real, followed by his anguished cries piercing the dark and his broad back disappearing onto the dim deck without a backward glance.
I shake off the haunting memory, determined to respect his wishes and stay away. Last week had been awkward. Every evening after a tense dinner, he would close the door to his room while Elena gave us worried side glances. I would spend the night crying into my silk pillow.
Pushing the dark thoughts away, I force myself to bravely lift my chin. Setting off for the nearest Starbucks, I manage to notice and appreciate the azure Manhattan sky above me.
That’s what I call progress.
The smell of roasted coffee envelops me like a comforting blanket as I join the queue. Everyone bustles purposefully on their way to important meetings and tight deadlines, venti drinks fueling their stride. Part of me envies their focus and resolve.
I'm waiting on my iced oat milk latte when my phone rings, jerking me from my worries. Grace's features fill the screen, and despite the heartache, I feel my first genuine smile in days bloom across my face.
“Please tell me your morning is less of a disaster movie than my shipwreck,” I blurt by way of greeting her. “Did you drop off Aria? On your way to work?”
“Yes, Mads, relax, all is under control here. I’m almost at the office and wanted to see how you’re holding up.”
Grace makes appropriate gasping noises while I tell her about my sad week. “He sounded sort of final about the whole 'it's not you, it's my traumatic stress disorder’ thing,” I conclude glumly. “He’s been ghosting me the whole week. Just when I thought he was about to admit that we were for real.”
“Well, I've got news to distract you from Mountain Man, Mads,” Grace attempts a change of topic after a short silence. “I signed my book contract with Crimson House yesterday, baby sis! My hotshot agent managed to get an editor to look at it, and they loved it.” She giggles. “It looks like we’ll have to move to Brooklyn.”
Forgetting where I am, I gasp and let out a happy scream, drawing mega side eye from the cool SoHo crowd.
Grace freaking did it!
“My squeal was apropos for your book deal. Don’t get any wrong ideas on the Brooklyn part though,” I tease.
“They are giving me a fifteen thousand advance. Can you believe it?”
“Ohmygod . . . This is for real, Grace.”
With such stellar news and a venti vegan coffee in progress, my mood improves somewhat. We chat a bit longer, then I hang up as I enter the sleek high rise housing Whitmore Tech.
Hopefully, my smeared mascara doesn't scream 'walk of shame'. It’s close to nine, and the lobby is brimming with suits and heels rushing to get to their desks.
My situation is confusing, to say the least.
I’m pining for Jack, who won’t have me. And yet, we pretend we are in love in front of his father and everyone else.
Not that I have to pretend much.
Yep, I think I’m in love with that jerk.
My head is ready to explode, and once again, I’m on the verge of tears.
Bedraggled, I step past reception on the twenty-fifth floor when Preston Walsh appears out of nowhere, flanked by expensive suits.
“Why, Maddie! Long time no see.” Before I process him creeping up on me at my place of work, his eyes rake over my disheveled appearance like it's his birthright.
“Oh, if it isn't Preston Walsh. What brings you here?” I grind out, forcing a terse smile far south of civil.
His grin curdles. I'm debating exactly where to mount his severed head once I’m done with him, when the devil himself emerges from down the hall. Two devils, to be precise. Jack and Cade glide toward us, both looking criminally fine in power suits that do nothing to contain all those special-ops-sculpted muscles underneath. But my eyes are drawn to Jack only. He is breathtaking.
My heart begins to flap in my ribcage.
Taking advantage of my distraction, Preston oozes closer, clearly hoping to earn himself a better view down my cleavage. But he stops in his tracks once he notices Jack, whose face is frozen. The scowl on his face has him looking stormy and foreboding. His jaw is clenched so tight that it’s a wonder his teeth don’t shatter.
None other than CEO of Walsh Dynamics, Roger Walsh, suddenly appears beside Preston. “Jack! Sorry if my boy interrupted anything important here. Let's get straight to business.”
Preston shoots me a smug wink then dutifully trails the grown-ups into the sleek conference room.
