I close my eyes, the memory so vivid I can still smell the cinnamon candles she'd lit, can still see the afternoon light filtering through the curtains, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. "When she finally saw me, she jumped up, wrapped herself in a throw blanket—the one my grandmother had made. Her lipstick was smeared across her face. I remember thinking she looked like a clown. A terrifying, desperate clown."
The memory surfaces like a bruise being pressed—that confused little girl watching her mother wrapped around someone who wasn't her father, the hurried scrambling for clothes, the desperate pleas not to tell.
"I swore I'd never be like her. Never be that... trampy."
Caine gently lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. "You're not trampy, Jenna. Far from it."
"You had a condom ready," I say suddenly. "Was I just... is this something you do often?"
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I've been with my share of women, yes. I was seeing this woman a few months back, a consultant we hired on contract. Sandra was her name. We used to fuck on my couch. That’s why I still have condoms in my desk.”
The memory of him reaching into his desk suddenly makes sense.
I cock a brow, annoyed by his revelation. Of course he would be fucking women on his office couch. He's agorgeous billionaire. What did I expect? The condom was certainly convenient. I wonder if we would have had sex if there hadn't been a condom.
"I've only been in love twice," he goes on. "Maria was my first love. College girlfriend. Smart as hell, studying neuroscience. She left me for a guy in her lab who wasn't—her words—'as intense or neurotic as me.'"
A laugh escapes me despite everything. "Neurotic? You?"
His smile is small but genuine. "Hard to believe, right?"
The moment of levity fades quickly, reality settling back around us like heavy fog.
"What are we going to do about this?" he asks quietly. "I hadn't planned for this to happen, not like this. I'm sorry I've messed up everything.”
"You haven't messed up anything I haven't messed up myself."
"The difference is I have nothing on the line. You have everything."
I close my eyes, exhausted. "I'm sorry about... acting the way I did… I’m embarrassed. And also, you know… throwing up."
"Don't apologize." He smiles. "That was definitely a first for me. I've never made a woman vomit before."
I bite my lip. "Well, don't take it personally. The sex was amazing."
A playful grin stretches across his lips. "Glad to hear it. And I completely agree."
I feel myself blushing, brought back to that intense orgasm. Silence fills the room as we both get lost in the memory of it. The weight of what we've done—what we're still doing—settles around us like a heavy blanket.
I can almost see the images playing across Caine's face, his green eyes darkening slightly as he remembers. My skin prickles, recalling the way his hands moved over my body, slow and deliberate, and rough and frenzied, all at once.
The pool hall feels a million miles away. Reeves, Liam, our little yellow house in Cumberland—they exist in another universe right now. In this office, with its pretentious industrial decor and that ridiculous, expensive-looking, gigantic light fixture overhead, time seems to stretch and compress all at once.
I trace the edge of the sofa with my fingertip, picturing him fucking another woman right where I'm sitting. Everything about his life is so different from mine—from the expensive stuff that surrounds him to the way he carries himself, like someone who's never had to worry about making rent or figuring out how to pay the month’s mortgage.
And yet, there's something in his eyes that mirrors my own pain—that loss of a parent too young, that search for something solid to hold onto.
The sun has set, and the city lights of Portland twinkle through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting shadows across the room. I should feel guilty—I do feel guilty—but there's also this terrifying sense of rightness I can't shake off. Like I've been sleepwalking through my life until now.
I picture the faceless woman again. The woman he fucked on this couch. She's beautiful, intelligent and sophisticated, and the complete opposite of me. She's not sentimental. She's a total girl boss. She doesn't care about him. It's just about sex for her.
I wonder if they're still fucking. He used the past tense when he spoke of her. "So you broke up with the couch sex lady," I ask. I hate myself for caring so much. "What was her name? Sandra?"
A whisper of a smile traces his lips—he's seemingly amused by my very obvious jealousy. "Yes, we broke up a few months ago, before I met you. I found out she was married and had been lying about it."
I laugh. Wow. Ironic. "You have a thing for married women, apparently."
He shakes his head and takes my hand. "This isn't the same, Jenna. It's not the same at all."
