She seemed safe. Easy.
Not Vanessa. Not difficult and confusing, and manipulative.
I told myself that I did all the things I did for one reason and one reason alone—with everything Vanessa and I had gone through, she still deserved more than what I could give her.
I just hated how she used my weakness against me every damn time.
“How was the party?” Vanessa was sitting cross-legged on the couch, wineglass in her hand, not drinking it, just swirling it like she was contemplating drinking it.
I sighed and tossed my keys onto the counter next to the book, next to the reminder of when things had felt perfect. I hated it when she came into my domain, like we were still together and she was just waiting for me to get home so we could hop into bed. She did it as a reminder, and it made me even angrier.
“Good.” I grabbed the bottle off the counter and a glass, then sat next to her. “Is there a reason you’re still up?”
She looked into her wineglass and sighed. “Just . . . thoughts.”
“Thoughts.” I smirked. “Deep ones or are we talking massage appointments and if you should buy a small dog?”
She scowled and then smiled, a real smile, one that reached her eyes and wasn’t full of scorn or bitterness. And for one second, one damn second, I was taken back in time to our first kiss, when she told me she wanted to spend her life in my arms if I’d let her.
When I said I wanted the same thing.
Her first lie.
My first mistake.
It was amazing what a genuine smile did for my mood. But I knew it wouldn’t last, it was fake hope that we could rebuild what had been broken.
I stopped believing in hope a long time ago.
But her smile did make me feel like an ass, because no matter how horrible she was, there was no justification for the things I said, no matter how angry, no matter how sad I still felt.
You can’t put someone in a box and not expect them to claw their way out, no matter how long it takes, how bad it hurts.
You fucking climb.
You survive.
Vanessa tilted her head up at me, a wave of pretty blonde hair fell across her face. “Where do you think we went wrong?”
Did she have time for a list?
I shifted my position on the couch.
“And before you say something sarcastic, can I just say . . .”—she held her hand out as if she was trying to stop the words that were about to tumble out of my mouth—“that I’m serious, when did it begin?”
I hated talking about it.
Refused to even go there with my therapist.
I took a few sips of wine then put it on the table. “When you finally understood that the world is a cruel place, a cruel place you can’t control like you’d always believed. When biology betrayed you. I think it was a slow burn, Vanessa. I think that it started with devastation, betrayal, lies. You ask when it started? The day I said I do.”
She blinked back tears. “I made a choice.”
“You did,” I said matter-of-factly. “You made a choice without telling me, without telling Colin, you made a choice for you, not for us.”
“But I did do it for us! For your career! To keep this!” She threw her one free hand in the air and then crumpled in front of me.
I grabbed her wine and set it on the table. My hate lessening as I took her frail body into my lap and held her. “You decided what was best without consulting the one person who’s supposed to be your partner . . . Vanessa, I would have done anything for you.”
“And now?” she sniffled, looking up at me.
“Now,” I said sadly, “I just want to be free.”
She stared at my chest, her tears drying. “You’re cheating.”
“No.” God, how many times would we go over this?
“We’re still married.”
Not for long. “Yes.”
She wiped her nose. “I refuse to accept that we’re through, Jessie. We were good together.”
Until fame caused her to make one choice that devastated not just me but everyone around us.
As I glanced around my pristine white house, I knew I’d married another control freak, another person who bought the lie that it mattered what others thought about you.
The lie I still believed.
The lie I still lived on a daily basis, because it was all I knew. If everything looks good, it must be good. What a fucking joke. My whole life had been based on the approval of others—what team to pick, what car to drive, even what woman to marry.
And then it hit me, maybe I’d let Blaire slip through my fingers because I knew she wasn’t the type who’d be okay with the white walls.
She’d want to paint them.
She’d want chaos.
And chaos terrified me almost as much as the white walls surrounding me, as much as the blank stare of the woman I used to love right the hell in front of me.
With one last sigh, I kissed her forehead and stood. “I just want you to be happy.”
I truly meant that.
“How can I be happy without you?”
That’s the problem, that had always been the problem, I was happiest without her, she was happiest with me. Even in the beginning, it had always been a lie. A farce. I used her to feel like I’d arrived, and she used me to keep herself relevant.
We were doomed from the start.
“Get some sleep.”
Her tears continued, and as I made my way into my room, cell in one hand, wine in the other, it was to the music of her sobs.
As if I was the one who had ruined us.
When we both knew—it had been her.
Guilt ate me alive as I sat on my bed and sent another text to Blaire. I didn’t want a quick hookup, I didn’t need anything other than . . . someone to talk to.
That’s what I told myself when I sent a second text.
That’s what I told myself when I thought about how attracted I was to her.
That’s what I told myself when the view of her ridiculous partner haunted my line of vision, as if she was trying to cock block me even in my dreams.
I told myself it was harmless.
Stupidly.
I believed it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
BLAIRE
The car pulled up to the curb. I looked out the window. “Your hotel?”
“One of my hotels, but who’s counting?” He flashed a cocky grin that had me both irritated and a bit breathless.
“Apparently you are,” I said in a snarky voice to hide the way his smile made me feel all the feels I sure as hell should not be feeling.
Colin jerked his head toward the building and held out his hand. “Let’s go.”
“You gonna play my bartender?” I teased as the doors were opened for us and he was greeted as Mr. Buchanon.
“Damn, left my apron upstairs, wanna help me find it?” he teased as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders. I felt his biceps. Triceps. I felt muscle. It was a puzzling realization that the guy who didn’t play football, the guy I was walking with to God knows where, was either a secret gym rat, or just didn’t feel the need to give out any extra information, even to me.
“Is that where we’re going?” I gulped. “Upstairs?” Why was I suddenly pointing up with my free hand? Why was he letting me just hold it there for more than two seconds awkwardly?
He grabbed my free hand and kissed the back of it. “I promise your . . . virtue”—he licked his lips like he was hungry as his gaze roamed up and down my body—“is safe with me.”
I exhaled.
“For now,” he added with a wink.
He led me to a private elevator with two buttons.
Penthouse.
Lobby.
He hit the P.
And I mentally went over all the reasons I’d agreed to get in that car with him and came up with nothing except . . .
It was his birthday.
And I genuinely liked him at least half the time.
The elevator doors opened to a large open-concept living space, with rich burgundy walls, colorful pictures, rugs that covered most of the black slate, and a fireplace that took up at least ten feet right in the middle of the room.
With freaking swings hanging from the ceiling around it.
I smiled.
“Ah, she likes the fireplace.”
“She does.” I grinned harder. “It’s . . . really cozy.”
“It should be.” He shrugged. “This is where I like to stay when I’m working at the hotels, it just feels more like home.”
I frowned. “So why waste money on that huge house with the amazing hand-built bar?”
“And she likes the bar,” he laughed.
“She likes the bar.”
“So does he.” Colin held out his hand. “There is literally nothing else personal in that house. I love the bar, I designed it and helped build it, the only thing in that house that has my hands all over it—my heart—is that bar.”
I stilled.
“So in a roundabout way, I think you just said you loved me?” he finished.
“Like, I said like.”
“Eh, but you kind of love it, admit it.”
I turned away and crossed my arms. “You’re annoying.”
“Because I’m right, but shhh, I won’t tell anyone you’re in love with me, it can be our little secret.”
“I’m not—” I took a deep breath. “It’s pointless to argue with you.”
“Quick learner.” His chuckle was deep, his voice had a hint of rasp that made me want to beg him to keep talking.
I turned around and made my way to one of the swings. I held on and sat down, then slowly pushed away from the rocks around the fireplace. It was just close enough to be warm, but not so close that I was afraid to singe my foot off, plus it was only three feet off the ground.
It was sadly one of the most relaxing things I’d done in days.
“Drink?” he called from somewhere behind me.
“Not whiskey,” I said quickly. I wanted a clear head, something that wouldn’t make me think that jumping from the swing and into his bed was a good idea.
I was already having a hard time differentiating between the slight whiskey buzz and the one from Colin kissing my hand.
I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t hear him coming.
Or the music softly playing in the background.
“I’m not seducing you.” Colin handed me a glass of chilled white wine. “But if I was, would this be too much?” He spread his arms wide, then nodded at the swing.
I took a sip and sighed happily as he sat next to me on the swing and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Probably. I’m a sucker for sports.”
He burst out laughing. “Yeah, I can see how this could be a sport . . . the constant pumping of your legs, your heart slamming against your chest while classical music trickles through the background, sweat running down your face because of the added effect of the fire. Yup, we’re doing hot swinging, same as hot yoga, but with wine.”
I couldn’t keep my giggle in. “Hey, I’m overexerted.”
“Can’t decide if that disappoints me or just tempts me more.”
“My lack of physical fitness tempts you?” I arched my eyebrows at him and took another sip. “How so?”
“Easier prey.” He shrugged, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk. “You’ll exhaust yourself, meanwhile I’ll circle”—he stopped the swing, and his hand moved to my thigh and slid toward my hip—“and pounce.” His lips pressed against my neck and then he pulled away.
I swear I almost took my pulse.
Mainly because it couldn’t be healthy to be in a sitting position, drinking wine, for heaven’s sake, and being able to actually hear and feel my pulse jumping wildly.
Colin seemed unfazed as he pushed against the rock with his foot, causing the swing to move again.
I finally regained my composure, meaning I sucked in air and managed not to spill my wine all over his lap.
“Why do you do it?” he asked after a few minutes swinging in silence.
My wineglass was empty. I still held it.
He stopped the swing, got up, and returned with the bottle, pouring me a generous amount before sitting again. “The PI business, why do you do it?”
“Why not?” I deflected.
“Blaire . . .”
“Colin . . .”
“Since we’re in love, you may as well tell me, you tell people you love this sort of thing, that’s like Falling in Love 101.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not a good story.”
“I didn’t ask for a happy ending.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and then decided maybe it was best to just blurt it all out, at inhuman speed, and then grab the bottle and start chugging. “My husband cheated on me with my best friend. I found him—them—together . . . the day before my birthday.” I winced.
He made a face, slammed his wineglass onto the rock, nearly breaking it, and stood. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I tucked my body back against the swing. “No.”
“Is he blind?”
“No.”
“Stupid?”
“No, not really.”
“INSANE?”
His voice was getting louder and louder, and I wanted to make it better. “Colin, it’s fine, look, I’m over it, I’m—”
“You’re not.” He said it like he knew me. Like he knew my pain.
“You don’t know.” I stood, gulped down my wine, and put my hands on my hips. “You don’t know me, you met me a week ago, a week!” I was acting ridiculous, but he was getting too close, he was making too much sense, he was giving me the look. I threw my hands into the air. “So don’t stand there and pretend to know everything that goes on in my life.”
His face softened. “I’m right though.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Blaire—”
Before I could protest, his lips were on mine, his mouth pressed softly like he was afraid to scare me away.
And maybe a bit like he was sorry.
I’d never gotten an apology from Jason.
I’d gotten nothing.
Except a broken heart, no closure, and anger.
He’d called a few times to say he was sorry about the way I found out and for all the reasons he did what he did, but it didn’t make me feel better, because I was so betrayed, so hurt that I refused to listen to him tell me that we were never right for each other, that I never loved him or us. And when I told him I wanted to make it work, he said he didn’t. He never said he was sorry for cheating on me. Those words never fell from his lips. If anything, he seemed happier than I’d ever known him to be.
I kissed Colin back.
I knew it was a mistake the minute I did it. Because guys like Colin were too good at making women feel like they were the only one in existence, when I stupidly knew—it was all a lie.
He pulled back as the music changed, shifted, to John Mayer, slow dancing in a burning room—how typical.
Colin twirled me in his arms so that my back was pressed up against him, and then he was kissing down my neck, owning me with that mouth of his. I hissed out a breath as his teeth collided with my collarbone only to bite it softly and return to my ear. “Stay with me.”
“That’s a bad idea.”
“So what?”
“I’m not built like you.” I said it even though I clung to him like a lifeline. “I don’t do one-night stands.”
His chuckle was wicked as he tugged my earlobe and whispered gruffly, “Sweetheart, I’m not asking for just one night.”
My knees weakened.
He was asking for more than I could give.
But not for more than I wanted to take.
“Come on.” He led me back to the swing.
I frowned as he slowly stripped his shirt over his head, revealing not just a six-pack, because he’d prepared me for that mentally, but an eight-pack.
With a deep V that went so low into his jeans I wondered if I’d need extra time to process.
Of course he was still in his twenties, so he probably ate Twinkies for breakfast and pizza for a snack and still managed to look like that.
I eyed him warily.
He crooked his finger.
I went willingly into his arms. He reached behind my back and unzipped my dress until it fell in a puddle by my heels.
He whistled at my red stilettos. “Keep those on.”
I nodded, knowing that if I said anything it could come out breathless and stupid and I’d probably end up saying something like Can I touch your muscles? I’ve never seen them up close on a man.
Jason was more of a yoga guy who liked to bike on the weekends.
Not Colin.
He looked like he was born in the weight room hanging from a pull-up rig.
He licked his lips, like he was waiting for my next move, but I was paralyzed with indecision.
Colin grabbed me by the hips and kissed me, he kissed me tenderly, he kissed me like he wanted to do nothing more than taste me for the next few hours and memorize every inch of my body.
His tongue was smooth against my lips as a dizzying sensation washed over me. Everything about him was just barely controlled, I could feel it in the way his biceps flexed, in the way his fingers dug into my hips like he was waiting to unleash, waiting for the go-ahead to take it further.
I wrapped my arms around his neck.
He heaved me into the air and placed me on the swing.
“More working out, huh?” I teased.
He bit down on his lip and pushed me away from him, only to stop me inches from his mouth and kiss me again.
Another push.
Another kiss.
And then he stopped me, hooked his fingers in my underwear, and shoved the swing away with his foot.
They were on me.
And then they were in his hands.
He grinned as I gripped the rope so I wouldn’t fall backward and crack my head open, ruining the most fun I’d ever had on a playground before.
“Nice trick.” I gulped.
“Can’t say that I’ve been practicing, since you’re the only woman who’s been up here.” The light tone in his voice was gone, replaced with tenderness, and maybe a bit of insecurity as he averted his eyes.
“But—”
“The house,” he said quickly. “I don’t take women to my personal space, because I don’t feel like burning my furniture just because they laid across it.”
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