by Gemma James
“You’re my boss’ brother,” I point out, hoping that will deter him.
“That’s true, and I can’t help that. Is Cash an ass to work for? I can try to look less like him, if that will help.” His eyes are laughing at me again. He’s at ease in his own skin, confident in his charming smile and flirtatious personality. Normally, it might work on me, but the problem isn’t that Cash is a mean boss.
Quite the opposite, actually.
And that’s the problem, but I can’t tell Kaden that.
“One date?”
“One date,” he says.
“As friends.”
“I’ll take it. Maybe once you get to know me, you’ll want to be friends some more.”
I can’t help but laugh. This man is too likable. But worry is already nagging me because I know I can’t offer him more than friendship.
“Okay,” I say with a bit of reluctance.
“Fantastic. I’ve got a thing next weekend that I’m in desperate need of a date for.”
I cock a brow. “You? Desperate?”
He puts his hands up. “Okay, okay. Desperate is pushing it a little. But I’d love for you to come along. Say around seven on Friday?”
Before I can give him an answer, he rises to his feet. “Looks like I need to talk to someone about a gig.” With a wink, he gestures for me to precede him back down the stairs.
Shit. What did I just agree to?
13. My Dear Friend Loneliness - Cash
There’s nothing but disquiet at the dining table. Monica is sitting across from me with her usual wine glass clutched between her fingers, but wherever she is mentally, it’s not with me.
“What did you do today?” I really don’t give a shit what she does with her days, but if one of us doesn’t speak and break this intolerable stalemate, I might go insane. We’ve spent the last few weeks avoiding each other, especially on the weekends when work doesn’t dominate the day and evenings. But tonight, we’re actually sitting down to a meal together, and I wonder what’s the point if we’re just going to eat in silence?
“I went to the spa,” she says, setting her wine glass on the table. “After that, I went shopping. Bought a new dress for your birthday dinner next weekend.” Her voice is almost monotone as she pushes linguini around on her plate.
I twirl some pasta around my fork. “I don’t know why my parents are going to all of this trouble.”
“Thirty is a milestone, Cash. It should be celebrated.” She flicks her bright blue gaze in my direction. “What about you? Anything interesting happen today?”
“Mostly just caught up on work.” Yesterday was definitely the better day. I’m still on a high from the time I spent with Jules. Those stolen moments with her are vivid in my mind, refusing to leave me alone. I’ve become addicted to the inviting warmth of her brown eyes. The shy curve of her mouth. The pink tint high on her cheekbones. Just brushing my fingers over the back of her hand gave me a goddamn hard-on.
Maybe if my wife hadn’t morphed into a stranger, I wouldn’t be so hot for another woman. Deep down, I know that isn’t true. And I can’t help but wonder if I would have reacted so strongly to Jules on that plane if I hadn’t found out about Monica’s affair hours before.
Shamefully, I have no doubt I would have. I can’t explain the rhyme or reason behind this connection I feel to Jules, but it’s very real, and it’s so powerful it’s amplifying everything broken between my wife and me.
“I talked to your mother yesterday,” Monica says, her soft voice bringing me back to the here and now. “She sounded excited about the dinner.”
“You know how my mom is. She loves putting on a good dinner party.”
Monica’s fork stalls halfway to her mouth. “I thought it was going to be a small gathering.”
“It is. I talked her into a simple family get-together.”
“Oh, well that’s good.”
My thoughts exactly, since pretending to be a happily married couple in front of a bunch of acquaintances is about as appealing as swallowing broken glass. Bad enough we have to do it in front of our parents and my brother.
I keep my negative thoughts to myself. For some reason, Monica is being on the agreeable side tonight. A flutter of hope busts past the hardened shell of my heart, as this is the first time we’ve talked in weeks without an underlying aura of animosity tainting every word spoken.
“Maybe we should begin the celebrating tonight.” I eye her carefully, dissecting every nuance of her expression. For once, the mask is gone. It’s just the woman I vowed to spend the rest of my life with sitting across from me. She isn’t wearing makeup, and her hair is gathered in a messy bun, but she’s never looked more beautiful to me. If I try hard enough, maybe this night will feel normal. “We never opened that bottle of wine from our wedding.”
She lowers her head, and I watch her guard go back up, helpless to stop it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We both have to get up early tomorrow.”
My fork slips from my fingers, hitting my plate with a silence-shattering clink. “Are you still fucking him?”
She lets out a breath, and she actually has the nerve to look exasperated. “I’m not sleeping with anyone.”
“So you ended the affair?”
We’re engaging in a standoff on either side of the dining room table. It’s a ridiculous oblong monstrosity taking up space with too many empty chairs, but at least we’re not so far gone that we’re sitting at opposite ends yet. I pin her with a stare full of unwavering challenge.
Go ahead and lie to me again. I dare you.
“I’m not going to do this with you.” She stands and grabs her half-eaten plate of food—dinner I had the audacity to cook for her in hopes of getting past this road block she’s put between us.
Because I’m at the end of my rope, and sick and tired of grasping at the fraying threads. I shouldn’t feel anything for another woman, but I do, and the longer Monica shuts me out, the more I want to say fuck it and throw out everything I’ve ever lived by.
I jump to my feet and round the table before she makes it far. Her fingers loosen around the expensive china, and I take the plate from her before setting it on the table with a calmness I don’t feel. Crowding her personal space, I palm her cheeks, hell-bent on stopping her from retreating this time.
“Let me in. Whatever it is, just let me in.”
Her lids flutter shut. “I was wrong to marry you.”
I take a step back, my hands falling from her face. “Why would you say that?”
“Because neither of us are happy.” Her eyes pop open, and I find her blue orbs glistening with unshed tears.
“I was happy,” I bite out with a glare. “And you were happy. Until you fucked someone else.”
She looks away, and that tells me everything I need to know. She might as well just admit to fucking around on me, because her continued silence is more incriminating than that photo.
“Why can’t you be honest? Is it that hard to tell the fucking truth?” I’m getting too worked up, my chest heaving as I fist my hands at my sides. Slowly, I unfurl my fingers and will the rage to cool.
“The truth won’t change anything,” she says, her voice little more than a soft whisper.
I gape at her, stunned. I have no idea what I expected her to say, but that’s the closest she’s come to admitting her wrong-doing. “Look at me.”
Clenching her teeth, she drags her gaze back to me.
“All I’m asking is that you meet me half way. If you made a mistake, just tell me. We can’t work through it until you do.”
“There’s nothing to work through.” She crosses her arms, and the ice is back in her eyes. “The only mistake I made was marrying you.” She turns her back on me and leaves the dining room, and her debilitating statement hangs in the air, the black cloud of her cruelty threatening to douse me with pain.
I push it down so deep I’m not sure it’ll ever resurface. Her infidelity didn’t destroy us. Neither did h
er lies. No, the ice around her heart—refusing to crack, let alone thaw—is the final nail in the coffin of our marriage.
My mind is nothing but chaos as I gather our dishes. Seconds later, I hear the click of the door to the master bedroom, echoing all the way downstairs. She’s locked it, I know she has, because I’ve tried the doorknob more than once these last few weeks, determined to get through to her. Even if it means sitting in quiet anguish to watch her sleep. To let her know I’m still here.
Waiting.
But she won’t let me in, emotionally or physically. The walls she’s erected between us are too high and thick, and I can neither hurdle nor bust through them.
After the dinner clean-up, I settle into bed with nothing but utter silence greeting me in the spare bedroom, and I’ve never felt so alone. I finger my cell, thinking of Jules and how eager she was for the touch of my hand yesterday. How simple things are with her, despite the complications we face every day at the office. I’m not sure how something can be so easy and difficult at the same time, but that’s how it is with Jules.
Wanting her is downright wrong. But being with her is as easy as breathing. Before I talk myself out of a very bad idea, I pull up her name in my contacts and text her a question I’ve wanted to ask since I watched her walk away in the airport.
Me: Would you have let me kiss you on the plane?
I already know the answer, but I want…no, I need her to admit it. To acknowledge it. And I don’t give a flying fuck if I’m playing a risky game. My heart is pounding too hard to care about the dangers of crossing such a precarious line as I wait for her response.
Please, for God’s sake. Text me back.
Six agonizing minutes pass before my cell vibrates in my palm.
Jules: You know I would have.
Letting out a long breath, I settle against the headboard and wonder if she’s in bed, too. Is she wearing practical but entirely cute pajamas? Or is she naked, her sinful body a temptation between the sheets? Is her hair twisted in a messy up-do—the kind I’ve spied her wearing a few times since she started working for me—or is it wild and free, falling over her dainty shoulders in golden waves?
I envision her silky locks splaying her pillow, and my dick throbs, heavy between my legs. Thickening and growing the more I think about her. I’m headed straight for trouble, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Maybe we were fools to believe we could leave this line uncrossed.
Maybe if I were fucking my wife right now, I wouldn’t be fucking with disaster.
Me: I loved spending time with you yesterday.
Jules: Me too. I can’t stop thinking about you.
I hesitate, fingers hovering above the on-screen keyboard.
Me: I was wrong to ask for friendship. We’re crossing all sorts of lines here, Jules.
Jules: The lines are getting blurry, aren’t they?
A smile tugs at my lips. I adore her easy-going spirit. Despite the heaviness underlying this whole exchange, she manages to bring out the light.
Me: They are. I don’t know about you, but I might need glasses.
Jules: You’d look sexy as hell in glasses.
Me: You’d look sexy as hell with a paper bag over your head.
Jules: Way to be original.
Now she’s got me laughing on top of being downright horny. And it feels good to laugh. Hell, it feels good to be wanted.
Me: I’m an architect. I’ll leave the wordsmithery to you.
Jules: Is that even a word?
Me: See? I’m hopeless.
Jules: Hopelessly irresistible. But I’m just an assistant, so what do I know?
The seconds on my wristwatch sound off in my ears as I think of how to respond. There’s so much I want to say to her. And so much that I can’t.
Me: Do you really want to know what I think?
Jules: Always.
Me: The moment I laid eyes on you, I swear a lightning bolt hit me.
Jules: That’s a little better than the paper bag line.
Good God, this woman. She actually stuck her tongue out at me via emoji.
Me: Your turn then, Miss Originality.
Two whole minutes go by before she responds. I know, because I counted every second.
Jules: I felt the same way. No one’s ever affected me the way you do. You could hold my hand forever, and I’d be happy.
Jesus, I’m a goner. Beyond gone. There’s no chance of salvation for me—not when she says things like that.
Me: I know I promised we wouldn’t do this, but I want you so damn much. I wish I’d met you a year ago. You’re the right woman at the wrong time, and I don’t know what to do with that.
As soon as I hit send, part of me wishes I can erase and rewind. Take back this entire conversation. We’re poking a rattler, and the strike will come fast and poisonous enough to kill. A few minutes go by, and I’m guessing she wised up and put her phone away. I wish I had the fortitude to do the same. The thought has barely finished when another text comes through.
Jules: You’re married, so there’s nothing to be done about anything.
She’s right, but hell, how the utter truth in her words rips through me, as jagged as a serrated knife. I close my eyes and let out a ragged breath. I have no idea how I went from being devastated over Monica’s infidelity to falling for a woman I barely know.
But that’s exactly what happened. Something inside Jules spoke to the center of my being, almost as if our souls crashed into each other at first eye contact. I swallow hard, second guessing my next message to her, but in the end, I send it because I need her to understand.
Me: My marriage is a mess. I don’t even know if she’s still cheating on me. She won’t talk to me.
Jules: But you have a marriage, and that’s all that matters.
My fingers are flying over the digital keys, tapping out words that are only digging my shameful hole deeper.
Me: What if I didn’t?
Jules: But you do.
Me: Humor me.
Jules: If you weren’t married, I’d be all over you.
Simple words, yet the images they conjure are X-rated. In my mind’s eye, I see her naked and straddling my lap, lowering herself onto my cock as her luscious hair falls in sheets around my face.
Me: Fucking hell, Jules. You’ve got me so damn hard.
Jules: I wish I was with you right now.
Me: What would you do if you were?
Jules: Things that would make it very difficult to look you in the eye at work.
Me: You’re killing me. I hope you realize that.
Jules: I didn’t, but it’s a powerful notion. Does it torture you to know I’d put my mouth on you?
My unfaithful cock is about to get off on this conversation alone.
Me: Hell yes.
Jules: I’m not very good at it, but I’d want to be with you.
Two seconds later, she sends an embarrassed emoji, followed by another message.
Jules: I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m saying these things!
Me: Don’t ever be sorry. Your honesty means the world to me. I love how you speak your mind.
Jules: That’s what you do to me. You make me feel safe enough to spill my guts, even embarrassing shit.
Me: What makes you think you’re not good at it?
Jules: My ex said I sucked, and not in a good way.
Me: I’m calling bullshit. Just looking at you gets me hard. What kind of man says something like that to his girlfriend? He didn’t deserve you.
I swallow past a lump of guilt before adding what I don’t want to admit, but I think she needs to hear it. Or I need to say it. Either way, it’s the absolute truth.
Me: I don’t deserve you either, even if I were free to be with you.
Because what kind of man marries one woman and ends up lusting after another? The circumstances don’t mean shit. All I’m accomplishing is widening the ravine created by Monica’s deceit, not to mention playing with Jules’ heart.
> Me: I don’t want you to get hurt.
Jules: Too late. But I did it to myself. I was wasted when I fucked up in Oklahoma, but I was sober when I walked into your office for the first time. I knew better, and I still took the job.
My breath catches in my lungs. Dread thuds to the bottom of my gut. I’m stuck in a marriage that’s crashed and burned, sleeping alone in the guest bedroom, and now I’ve got the hard-on from hell due to a woman I can’t have. This is insanity.
Me: We’re heading for trouble, aren’t we.
No question in that—just a pure statement of fact.
Jules: Yeah.
Me: I had no business texting you tonight. The blame is on me, Jules. If you want to pretend this conversation never happened, I understand. We’ll never speak of it again.
Jules: It would be the wise thing to do, wouldn’t it?
Me: Probably.
Hell, there’s no “probably” about it. I messed up big time, from the very first message I sent. No, from the instant I gave in yesterday and asked her to go for a walk with me. My phone is utterly still, the absence of her texts tossing me back into unbearable loneliness.
Suck it up, man.
I’m halfway to setting my cell on the nightstand when it vibrates in my palm.
Jules: Goodnight. Maybe I’ll see you in my dreams.
“Goodnight,” I whisper, choosing not to say goodbye via text. If I had my way, we’d never say goodbye at all.
14. Emotional Affair - Jules
Breathless. That’s what I am the instant our eyes lock the following morning. If anyone saw us behind the closed door of his office, they’d only see two colleagues greeting each other for the day. They wouldn’t know how we exchanged little pieces of ourselves last night.
Shoving my nerves down, I set a cup of coffee on his desk for him, and he turns that stunning smile on me like he normally does.
“Thank you,” he says before taking a cautious sip of the hot java. “You have no idea how much I needed this.”
“You’re welcome.”
He always has a seat waiting for me on the other side of his desk. I slide into it, tablet ready in my hands.
“I have a meeting in an hour,” he says, dragging his fingers through his dark hair. “I think it’s a good idea that you come along to learn the way I do things. You might need to step in for me while I’m gone next week.”
