Page 18 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

“I spoke with Marjorie from the board this morning,” she says. “Her niece works in administration, and apparently Nate has been quite upset.”

I stare at the floor tiles.

“Upset,” I repeat.

“Yes,” mom says briskly. “Which makes me wonder what you did this time. Honestly Athena, men don’t just cheat without provocation.”

Something hot flares in my chest.

“He slept with my best friend.”

“Well,” she replies calmly, “that suggests the relationship had problems long before this.”

My hand trembles slightly. “I’m hanging up.”

“You always run away from conversations that might help you grow,” she counters, and I can almost hear her frowning. “And if I’m being honest, darling, you’ve never been particularly good at maintaining yourself. Men notice those things.”

I grip the counter with my free hand while the old familiar shame rises up from somewhere deep and ugly. “You’re blaming me,” I say quietly.

She tsks. “Don’t be so emotional. I’m simply encouraging reflection.”

I breathe in slowly through my nose then hang up. My hands shake slightly while I stare at the dark screen of my phone, and it takes a moment before I realize I’m gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to make my knuckles ache.

Sixteen years of therapy and distance from that voice and she can still find the exact pressure points that make my chest feel like it’s collapsing inward.

I shove the phone back into my pocket and walk out of the kitchen before anyone notices the look on my face.

The hallway outside the pediatric wing feels too bright.

I round the corner near the surgical elevators without paying attention to where I’m going, and my shoulder collides with something solid enough to stop me in my tracks.

“Sorry,” I say automatically.

Then I look up.

Nathan Clarke stands directly in front of me, and he looks so handsome it makes me wince. “Athena,” he says.

His voice is low, but the concern in it feels painfully real. “Are you alright?”

For a second I can’t answer.

Seeing him now sends a shock of fresh embarrassment through my body as last night’s memory flashes in my head. The photo. The message. The fact that my naked chest currently exists somewhere on his phone.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly.

He studies my face in silence. “You don’t look fine.”

“I’m just tired.”

I try to step around him, but his hand closes lightly around my wrist.

His hand on me cuts the thought off so fast I almost forget how to breathe, which feels fair, considering my brain has been making a complete mess of him all day. I look up, and that doesn’t help.

The man is all hard lines and impossible self-control, broad shoulders under a dress shirt, strong arms flexing as he reaches for me, gray eyes dark as a storm rolling in, and that mouth—God, that mouth—set beneath a scruff of stubble that only makes him look more unfair.

Even the veins in his forearms are distracting, the kind of detail I absolutely should not notice on my boss and somehow always do.

He says my name, and I blush like I’ve been caught doing something illegal.