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  I freeze. I can’t move. Can’t speak. I don’t even want to think. I want to rewind this moment and change the script, make different words emerge from his mouth.

  But I can’t. The truth is out and there’s no going back.

  I’ve never felt anything like that before.

  As cold, harsh reality hits, I’m suddenly tumbling, falling . . . but not down into the sparkling water. I’m stumbling backward off the wrong end of the diving board, plummeting toward the concrete on a collision course that’s going to leave me battered and bruised.

  He’s never felt anything like that before.

  Which means he doesn’t feel it for me.

  This is one-sided. This is me, the wide-eyed virgin, falling for the first guy she slept with. My chest heaves, and a stupid hitch tries to work its way up my throat. But I won’t let on that I’m every bit as much of a fool as I’ve feared.

  Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and fight like hell to maintain a calm facade. If I stay strong, I can try to preserve our friendship, our working relationship. That’s what matters now.

  Don’t let on, CJ.

  He clears his throat, and when he looks up again, he’s smiling and holding a dark menu with sushi on the front. “How about sushi? Keep dinner classic and elegant after a day of adventure?”

  I stare at him, amazed that this is so simple for him, astonished that his stomach is his top priority when the floor is slipping from under me.

  But his focus on food is further proof that I’m in this alone.

  And I need to extricate myself from this situation the same damn way.

  My lips part to say sushi is fine, but I can’t seem to make the words come out. I’m too mortified. Too sad. Too deep in grief for what’s never going to be.

  But thankfully, Graham’s cell buzzes at that exact moment, sparing me from saying sushi is fine for heartbreak, thank you very much—my one piece of good luck this evening.

  He picks it up and is silent for a moment.

  “Whoa, slow down, Brian.” Graham paces out of the kitchen into the dining area overlooking the Hudson. “Is she okay? Are you okay?” He nods, pacing faster. “Got it. No worries. You go have a baby. I’ll take care of everything else.” More nodding, and now a hand raked through his hair. “Absolutely. And let us know how it goes. We’re all rooting for you guys and a safe, easy birth.”

  Graham ends the call and turns back to me with a huff of breath. “Babies.” He laughs once. “They don’t come on a schedule, do they?”

  My brow pinches. Am I supposed to answer that? But I don’t need to because he keeps going. “I have to head into the office. Brian was putting the finishing touches on our new ads tonight so our ad agency can finalize the package for the board by Monday afternoon. But his wife—”

  “Is having a baby.” I force a smile, pretending I’m not in the middle of an emotional meltdown. “I heard. You go take care of business. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you here starving to death.”

  “I can order food. I’m a big girl.” I make shooing motions with both hands, pathetically thrilled that I haven’t broken down in front of him. “Now go on, get everything handled. I’ll be fine.”

  And I am fine.

  Or I will be. I even manage to kiss him goodbye without falling to pieces and crying like an idiot virgin who had no idea how easy it would be to let love become inextricably bound up with pleasure.

  But once Graham is gone and I’m alone in his house, with his leather-bound books chosen by an interior decorator, and the pans he never uses, and the sterile decorations in the bedroom that make it clear all this man does here is sleep, the truth settles on my chest, crushing in its weight.

  Graham is married to his work.

  Work is his steady date, his primary focus, and the drumbeat that makes his heart dance. Women have always been a passion for him, but never as anything more than entertainment, something fun to appreciate and enjoy in his spare time once the work day is done. He told me so himself at brunch when he said he was on a sex-batical because sex complicates everything. Let alone more than sex…

  And I am no different than the women who’ve come before me.

  I. Am. No. Different.

  Tears are rising in my eyes when I’m saved by the bell a second time. Though, this bell is a pack of baying wolves – my landlord’s ringtone.

  “Hello,” I sniff as I listen to Arno’s heavily accented voice droning on the other end of the line, telling me that my apartment is all fixed and ready to go. “Really?” I ask, unable to believe such a massive mess was set back in order so quickly. “The sink and the tile and everything?”

  “Everything, all done,” Arno confirms. “They fix it all first day and just call me now to say they check and grout is dry. All done. Good as new.”

  Well. It looks like the universe is having at least a little mercy on me.

  “That’s wonderful.” I stand, heading toward the bedroom to pack my bag, my mind already made up. “Thank you so much, Arno. I’ll be home tonight.”

  And then I pack. Because I believe in signs. And all the signs are telling me it’s time to get out before I give any more of myself away to a man who isn’t interested in what I have to give.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Graham

  Almost done.

  Another slide.

  Another photo.

  Another set of ads to review.

  As I click on the final proof for the new campaign, I study it carefully, making sure every detail, every word is top-notch. Does it reflect the high-end brand we’ve crafted?

  The new models look fantastic—they are every size, shape, and color, and each woman is beautiful in her own way—but I keep seeing CJ in the corset. CJ wearing it better than anyone’s ever worn it.

  At least in my eyes.

  And that’s when I realize what this campaign needs.

  She was right.

  CJ was damn right.

  It’s not enough to change the images. The cake tagline is crap. These corsets aren’t about food. They’re about how they make a woman feel.

  With a renewed focus, I tap out a few lines. Then I tweak them. I tighten them, and I send one final change back to the ad agency.

  “This holiday season, feel sexier than you’ve ever felt before.”

  Simple, but on point. That feels so much better than a slogan about candy or food. Women love gorgeous lingerie because of how it makes them feel. And men can’t resist a woman who is confident, passionate, and feeling sexy in her skin.

  That’s what I need to convey. That’s what CJ has always shown me when she’s worn Adored.

  I call my agency contact, not caring that it’s Saturday night. He doesn’t, either. Sometimes you have to burn the midnight oil. I give him the change, and he tells me he’ll make the adjustment and send proofs back to me shortly.

  As I wait for him to reply, I review the slides one more time, then head to the conference room where the meeting will be held on Monday. I flick on the lights. All the chairs are empty, of course. It’s late on a Saturday night. But as I wander through the room, I picture Monday morning and the big pitch before the board. Before the shareholders. Making it clear I’m 100 percent committed to delivering on my vision.

  God, I love this job, this company. I love what Sean and I built. My eyes stray to the photo of Sean and me at the hockey game, and a faint smile tugs at my lips.

  He’d be proud, too. We built something from the ground up, and I continue to run it with integrity, treat our employees well, and deliver a superior experience to our consumers.

  My smile fades.

  Usually, I get a charge being in here, like a pitcher wandering across the mound before a big game, listening to the quiet of a stadium to get psyched up.

  But right now, there’s a strange hollowness in this room. Maybe because I’m the only one here.

  But maybe for another reason.

&
nbsp; Because I don’t want to be here at all.

  I want to be back at my house with my woman.

  But she’s not mine. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  I was being honest with her. I’ve never felt anything like what my parents have before. Not until now, with her. But I don’t know how to do this—how to risk losing the friend I love to win the woman I love, knowing I can’t have them both. Maybe I’m foolish to think I could have more with her. She chose me because I have a reputation for knowing what to do in the bedroom, not because of my stellar track record with relationships.

  Because that does not fucking exist.

  I return to my desk, but there isn’t anything in my inbox from the ad agency, even though the clock is ticking closer to nine.

  On impulse, I pull out my cell and text CJ.

  Graham: What did you have for dinner, Butterfly? I’m hoping it was something much more delicious than the yogurt I stole from the staff fridge.

  CJ: I actually haven’t eaten yet. I was too busy picking up Stephen King and grabbing groceries and cat food. My apartment is ready early so I decided to head home.

  What? Head home?

  For a second, the words make no sense. When I think of home, I think of my home, because with CJ there, it finally feels like a home. Like a place I want to hang out on a Wednesday night and watch movies, or lounge in bed on a Sunday morning with coffee and pancakes.

  With her. All of it with her.

  And a part of me just can’t process that she’s taken off like that, without a heads-up.

  Graham: You left? You didn’t tell me. I didn’t think your place would be ready so soon.

  CJ: I didn’t, either. But hey, miracles happen! It’s so nice to be home with the kitty. I think he missed me. He’s super cuddly and trying to eat my earring. Isn’t that sweet?

  No. That’s not fucking sweet. She should be with me. Her crazy cat should be eating . . . a coaster in my house, a belt loop off my jeans, the top of the toothpaste tube.

  Anything.

  I rub my hand over the back of my neck, trying to make heads or tails of her departure. I cast about for something to say, something to make it clear I’d rather she be with me.

  Graham: That’s great, but selfish bastard that I am, I was really enjoying having you with me.

  I read it once more and hit send. I lean back in my chair and wait. That ought to at least start making it clear how I feel. I’ve never poured my heart out to a woman before, but I don’t see how she can fail to get the message from that.

  I want more of her.

  A few seconds later, a reply arrives, and I tense, hoping it’s her saying she’s called an Uber to meet me back at my place, to stay this night, then the next, then the next.

  CJ: I enjoyed it, too. Of course I did. And I know we were supposed to have seven days of lessons, but it’s nearly a week, and after today I feel ready. I’ve learned all I need to make it on my own. But thank you so much. I’ll never forget how wonderful you were. You were everything I wanted in a teacher and more.

  A teacher? That’s all I fucking was to her? A goddamn teacher she’ll never forget? I stare at her note. I turn my phone upside down, as if I can shake out the true meaning of her message.

  But when I read it once more, those cold words mock me.

  I was only her teacher.

  I wasn’t her lover.

  She was clear from the start. She wanted lessons in sex. She didn’t sign up for romance.

  I’m the only one who made that mistake. I’m the jackass who had this all wrong. I scoff, laughing at myself, but it’s not fucking funny. It's ironic. And it serves me right. Before her, I’d never been in love. Hell, I’ve never been in a relationship that lasted longer than a couple of months. Of course I’d fuck it up.

  And make the rookie mistake of thinking she’d fallen in love with me, too.

  But even though I’ve royally screwed up when it comes to understanding what love is, I’d like to think I at least know respect.

  And I need to respect the woman’s wishes. So I say something that’s true to my feelings while giving her the distance she seems to want.

  Graham: Thank you. The pleasure was truly all mine. I loved every second of being with you.

  Past tense. Loved. Was.

  I hit send and immediately bring my thumbs back to texting position. Because this sucks.

  There’s a painful ache in my chest. It’s no longer empty. It just fucking hurts, and I want to say so much more. I want to tell her that I’m not ready for this to end, that I don’t want it to end at all. Ever. I want to promise her that I can make all her dreams come true, and that there’s no need to make it on her own.

  Or, God forbid, make it with some other guy.

  The thought makes me sick. Physically ill. Sour inside. To think of some bastard with his hands on my CJ.

  But she’s made her position clear. So I simply text—

  Graham: I’m here whenever you need me, Butterfly. Anytime. Anywhere.

  CJ: Thank you. That means a lot to me, Graham.

  She means a lot to me. She means more to me than she’ll ever know.

  I don’t know how long I sit silently at my desk, numb and more alone than I’ve felt since my best friend died, but eventually, my inbox dings.

  The ads are here.

  The new mock-ups are perfect, so I send my approval and then return to the collection of walls where I will sleep tonight.

  It doesn’t feel like home. Not without her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  CJ

  I’m awoken Sunday morning by Stephen King sitting on my pillow, purring as he chews on my hair.

  “No, gross,” I murmur, pulling him under the covers with me for a snuggle instead. “No chewing, buddy.”

  But when he starts gnawing on the sleeve of my flannel pajamas, I don’t have the heart to stop him. I don’t have the heart to do much of anything except lie here and feel low.

  So low.

  “I miss him already,” I whisper to Stevie, my fingers gliding through his fur. “I don’t want to go back to being friends. I can’t.”

  Stephen King meows, and I wish I knew what it meant. Deciding I’m not going to get solid advice from a cat—any cat, but Stevie is an especially lost cause—I call Chloe.

  “I’m sad,” I whisper, when she finally answers on the fourth ring.

  Chloe sighs. “Oh no. It happened? He broke your heart?”

  “No. I broke it myself.” Tears well in my eyes for the hundredth time since last night. “I knew better than to fall for him, but I did it anyway.”

  “Oh, babe, I’m sorry.” Chloe murmurs something to someone else on the other end of the line. Her man of the moment. Because she is not alone, nor alone with a cat. “Want me to come over with donuts? Or some of that gross green stuff if you’re on a health kick?”

  I clear my throat. “No. I’m fine. I’ll go to the gym, maybe. I don’t want to ruin your morning.” She starts to object, but before she can sacrifice her romance on the altar of my unrequited heart, I insist, “I’m seriously fine. But I need a coffee date tomorrow morning, okay? Before work? Seven thirty at Dr. Insomnia’s Coffee and Tea Emporium.”

  “I’ll be there, babe,” she says. “And I’m truly happy to come over today if you change your mind. I’m always here for you.”

  Always here for you . . .

  That was what Graham said . . .

  And last night wasn’t the first time he said it.

  A fragment of memory tugs at my mind. It repeats, urging me to listen.

  Only I’m not sure why. But it’s loud, and insistent, so I pay attention as it demands I go searching for something that must be found. I thank Chloe, hang up, and roll out of bed before Stephen King can get his teeth on my socks, headed for the closet where I keep all my most treasured things.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Graham

  That was the worst night’s sleep of my life. And I’ve slept in a coach
seat on a red-eye across the country. Hell, I’ve hit the sack on the floor of my office for an hour of shut-eye after working all night.

  But this tossing and turning sucks.

  She’s not next to me when I wake, and that feels like an affront to the fabric of the universe. When I wander into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, the sink reminds me of her.

  The motherfucking sink.

  The stove holds a memory, for Christ’s sake.

  Good thing I don’t use it, or I’d think of her every time I cooked, and now I’ve found yet another reason to never make a meal I can’t take out or order in.

  I heave a sigh, trudge back down the hall, and curse my bed once more for taunting me with images of her on it, in it, curled up with me.

  Hell, it’s been less than twelve hours, and everything is a reminder of the woman I fell unexpectedly ass over elbow for.

  It’s a cruel joke. Is this what a broken heart feels like? How does anyone endure this? Get through it? All I know to do when my mind is a traffic pileup is to run. Maybe it will work with a piled-up heart, too.

  I pull on my basketball shorts, lace up some sneakers, and get the hell out of my lonely shell of a house.

  Cue the sad song.

  Yep, Taylor Swift, time to call me. I’ll inspire your next breakup tune.

  I hit the sidewalk, lengthening my stride instantly, running hard so my mind goes as blank as it possibly can. So I can let the physical overpower the emotional.

  I groan at the thought.

  Emotions are not my strong suit. Hell, they’re not even in my deck.

  All I can do is hope a workout will rid her from my mind. That has to be what the average guy does when he gets fucked by love, right?