Page 5 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

“Love you more.”

“Impossible.”

“Scientifically proven.”

She smiles and drifts off. I linger in the doorway for a moment after the light clicks off, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing while the apartment settles into quiet. I close her door gently and head to the kitchen.

Dinner for adults happens late in this house, mostly because I like having one small pocket of the day that belongs only to me.

Tonight’s luxury is pizza from the place down the street that pretends to be artisanal but absolutely knows it’s selling comfort food. I grab a slice and settle onto the couch with the box balanced on my knees. The first bite is excellent.

The second bite is even better.

I’m halfway through the third when someone knocks on the door. Something in my stomach twists immediately. Which is ridiculous, people knock on doors all the time. Neighbors forget their keys, delivery drivers get confused. These are all normal things.

Still, the feeling lingers. Something about the rhythm of the knock feels odd in a very familiar way. I set the pizza down slowly. The apartment is quiet except for the distant rush of traffic from the street outside.

I wipe my hands on a napkin and walk to the door. The strange tightness in my stomach grows with each step. It makes no sense, because nobody here knows me well enough to make me nervous.

Nobody here knows anything about the life I left behind.

I open the door, and Nathan Clarke stands on the other side.

For one suspended second neither of us moves. Then his gaze shifts past me toward the hallway behind my shoulder, toward the small girl who just wandered sleepily out of her bedroom rubbing her eyes.

The recognition is instant. Storm-gray eyes lock onto storm-gray eyes.

Nathan’s entire body goes rigid. Fury flashes across his face so quickly that it steals the air from the room. “Athena,” he murmurs in that deep, silky, dark voice of his. Even now, the way he says my name makes me weak in the knees. “We need to talk.”

His gaze snaps back to mine. “Now.”

1

ATHENA

SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

Boston in October has a way of projecting a romance vibe while quietly ruining your life. Every time I inhale, I’m hit by the scents of roasted chestnuts and car exhaust.

The sidewalks are crowded with people in scarves they absolutely do not need yet, and the leaves along Commonwealth Avenue turn just enough shades of red to make tourists believe this city is softer than it really is.

Right now it’s also trying to kill my feet.

I shift the weight of two takeout bags in one hand while digging my apartment key out of my coat pocket with the other, and I swear under my breath because the plastic handles are cutting into my fingers and the Thai place downstairs insisted on triple-bagging everything like they were packaging plutonium.

“Totally worth it,” I mutter to nobody.

The smell drifting from the bags is excellent.

Pad see ew, basil chicken, spring rolls, and the mango sticky rice that I absolutely did not need but purchased anyway because I just survived sixteen hours inside Hawthorne Children’s & Trauma Medical Center and that earns a person dessert.

My phone buzzes in my pocket while I balance the bags against my hip and finally manage to get the key into the lock.

I already know it’s my boyfriend Nate.

He texted earlier to say he might be home late because of a donor event at the hospital foundation, which makes sense because Nathan Clarke Jr. is the king of donor events.

He lives in the soft glow of networking cocktails and polite applause, and if there is a wealthy benefactor within a fifty-mile radius he will find them and charm them into writing a check.