“Why on earth do I need to be here twenty-four-seven?” she demands.
“Well, for starters, wife, we’re married. Second, Declan mentioned the show does random drop-ins to check on the couples. It would be smart for you and your things to actually be here when they knock, don’t you think?”
“I mean, it makes sense. But why wait until now to suggest this?”
“It’s not the first time, you just stopped checking your messages.”
The words are out before I can filter them, and I instantly regret the bluntness. Her eyes well up with tears. “And you stopped being kind,” she whispers.
It breaks me wide open.
Before everything went to hell, we had our own world tucked away on a private chat server. It was a coded space where we could drop notes away from prying eyes, offering a layer of security that standard text messages or the cloudcouldn't provide. Now that we were being so heavily monitored, we needed that extra privacy. It became a way to build a life together without shoving our relationship in Croix’s face or feeding the limelight. It was our “thing.” An escape that belonged only to us.
But after mediation, the light went out. Even though I kept sending messages, shouting into the void just to feel connected to her, she stopped opening them.
That was how I knew I’d truly lost her. She used to light up when she knew a message was waiting. It was a small secret shared across the distance. Now, the notification screen is a graveyard. I haven’t seen a read-receipt checkmark in months.
I watch her swallow hard, the vulnerability in her expression shifting back into the polished, professional mask she’s clearly spent time perfecting. It used to be so easy for me to get to her. Sometimes it feels as if we’ve lived a lifetime in a compressed timeframe, or like we’ve known each other in another life entirely.
I’m also painfully aware that I’ve been a complete asshole while trying to avoid my feelings for her.
I reach out to wipe away a stray tear, one I know killed her to let me see. “I’m sorry I stopped being kind, Ms. Mysterious. I’m sorry I forgot how to be the man you needed in the middle of all that. Even if we are just friends, even if you never let me near your heart again, I would be lying if I didn't tell you that I need you.”
She doesn't offer a rebuttal or a smile. She just grabs her bag, the weight of our “like Vegas” pact hanging between us.
“Okay,” she says at first, leaving me to wonder what she is actually surrendering to. “I have to go for now. But, okay. I will figure out which items I am bringing to stay for a few weeks.”
“Two months,” I counter, feeling a surge of excitement.
She lets out a breath. “We will start with a month. I will grab some things and let you know when to expect me.”
She walks out before I can tell her that I’ve been waiting for this. That I cleared the left side of the walk in closet, hoping she’d return to me. I stand in the silence of the apartment, the residual warmth of her presence still lingering in the room. I have my in. I have a second chance. Soon, I will have my wife back under my roof where she belongs.
Now, the real work begins. I have to figure out how to be the man she needs and the man kind enough to earn back her smile.
Just like Vegas.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Baptism Sunday, Boxer Briefs + Red Scrub Warfare
Aspen
My first week as Luca’s nurse was a masterclass in psychological warfare. I was only required to be at the apartment twice a week, but the two hours I spent there each day felt like a decade of sensory overload.
Luca moved through the space with a casual, predatory grace. He was usually shirtless, and even when he had to dress for virtual meetings, he was only “professional” from the waist up. He’d sit at his desk in a crisp button-up and a perfectly knotted tie, while beneath the glass tabletop, he wore nothing but boxer briefs.
The bastard caught me staring every single time. But what can I say? I married an African deity, even if he is currently off-limits.
“Girl,” Holly howls, her laughter carrying out the door onto the sidewalk. “I have a new level of respect for your self-control. A button-up and boxer briefs? That’s a damn Tom Ford fantasy if I ever heard one.”
“Yeah. Respect,” Tatum says.
We’re tucked into our usual corner booth at HollyDates, where the Sunday afternoon sun streams through the windows in long, honey-colored rays. The café has fully leaned into the season, trading its summer florals for overflowing baskets of dried eucalyptus and velvet pumpkins in muted earth tones. The air inside smells like a decadent mix of toasted pecans and woodsmoke, a cozy contrast to the crisp breeze rattling the orange leaves outside.
Despite the warmth of the room, a chill settles over our table. The only thing colder than the condensation on my iced latte is the look Eslin is giving me right now. While Holly and Tatum are practically vibrating with the scandal of my story, Eslin remains stone-faced, her eyes tracking me with a silent disapproval or disbelief.
“Trust me, it wasn’t as easy as it sounds to resist that man,” I admit, stirring my drink. “But since I was raised by two very petty parents, I didn’t take it lying down.”
