Page 77 of Unwritten Rules

There, I’d written my three novels while Zara visited back and forth, spurred on by emotions the loss of our child had wrought within me.

When I’d blown up in the literary world, I’d been forced to do book tours and signings. Interactions with humans – things that I’m inherently shit at.

My introverted self became an even bigger recluse, clinging to the engagement with Zara and the idea of the life we could build together – until I found her in bed with my father.

And I’ve been celibate since. Physically, at least – emotionally, my heart makes love to one Mila DeMarco each and every night, and my thoughts worship her daily.

But considering who she is, I will no doubt die celibate.

And that’s okay, because we will still have our friendship. I will still have my brotherhood with Henry. My found family.

I don’t need to sink my cock into her heat to feel the strength of our connection.

Even as I tell myself this, my body cries out for her.

Her inimitable touch. Her delectable scent. Her indelible presence.

Never in my life have I felt the need to be one with another person, but I know that coming together with Mila would somehow make me whole. She would complete me.

“See you in the next cartoon, boys.”

I stride from the main living room of DeMarco’s house, feeling Mila’s hot gaze on me the entire way to the exit, but not brave enough to meet her eyes without decimating our worlds to dust.

My longing for her has grown like wildfire on the cusp of becoming out of control – meeting her eyes right now would unravel what we’ve just barely sorted out, and I can’t do that.

Flooring the accelerator of my G-Class, I light out of there like a bat out of hell, the SUV eating the road to get to my destination within thirty minutes when it should have taken at least forty-five.

I slide my mask from the glovebox when I park, waiting for a valet to claim my car, and slip my phone from my slacks pocket to read Vivienne’s response.

V

As soon as possible, but hear me now, Nate. This is it.

No more. The baby is due next week. My body is at max capacity.

I can’t help the twinge of guilt that tears through me.

Fuck.

I’ll cover more expenses for Valentine’s whilst she’s recuperating this month. If it doesn’t ease her worries, it will reduce my sudden guilt.

A valet I recognise approaches as I realise I’ve got time to kill.

“Is there a crowd downstairs, Marcel?”

He nods once, a cheeky-as-fuck grin slowly spreading across his face.

“Yes, Mr Hawthorne. There most assuredly is. The last bout was a TKO by Mr Jameson, I believe. Us valets love to keep an eye on the contenders, but now you’re here, no one will gamble against you and that left hook you’ve got.”

Hmm, Jameson is here. I might just get a challenge for once.

Nodding brusquely, I sidestep Marcel, heading straight for the side entrance – no way am I engaging anyone on a Saturday fucking night at Valentine’s.

Way too busy for that shit.

Remembering that, I shoot a quick text to V.

ME