Page 30 of Suite 7

Stop.

I shower. The hot water is the wrong choice — it reminds me of his mouth, the heat of his hand between my thighs.

My hand slides down before I can stop it, seeking relief from the ache building low in my belly.

No.

I yank it away and press my forehead against the tile. I won’t give in to this. Won’t let him have this much power over me. Not like this. Not alone in my shower.

I turn the handle and let cold water numb my skin until my teeth are chattering.

Small victory. I’ll take it.

I get out, get dressed, and armor myself in tight jeans, a silk blouse the color of wine, and statement earrings that catch the light. This is the version of Vera who has her shit together.

One night. We got it out of our systems.

I’m making the lie easier with every repetition.

Sloane is already in our usual booth, mimosa in hand, smiling bright and uncomplicated. Phone face-down on the table, which means she’s serious about quality time. She waves when she sees me.

Normal. Easy. Everything I’m not.

I slide into the booth, arrange my face into casual Vera who didn’t submit to your brother last night.

“Finally!” She pushes a menu toward me. “I already ordered mimosas. You look like you need one anyway.”

“Do I?”

Her too-perceptive eyes move across my face with the systematic attention she brings to everything.

“You look different. Glowy. Like you got amazing sleep or amazing sex.” A pause. “Which is it?”

My heart stops.

Can she tell? Does she know? Can she see it written all over my face: her brother’s hands on me, his mouth, his commands, the way I came apart for him?

“Good sleep,” I say.

She looks at me a beat too long. Then lets it go. But I have the distinct feeling it’s not gone — just set aside, for later, when I’m less prepared for it.

The waiter appears. Sloane launches into a work story, and normally I’d be fully present for this, but today I’m only half-listening, caught between the pull of last night and the push of right now. I try to focus on the familiar rhythm of our friendship, but my mind keeps sliding back. Kane’s hands. His voice. The way he’d looked at me, like he saw straight through every defense I’d ever built.

And it doesn’t help, God, it doesn’t help, that every time I look at Sloane, I see those same gray eyes. Different, softer, warmer, but still unmistakably his looking back at me. The same shade that had held me pinned last night, that had watched me come undone with an intensity that still makes my breath catch.

“Vee, why are you being weird?”

The nickname lands wrong. Or maybe too right.

Vee. Sloane has called me that for nine years. It’s hers — the shorthand of a friendship that has survived everything. But last night, in the dark, with his lips against my forehead and his hands still warm on my skin, he said it too. Let go, Vee. Quiet and certain, like he’d always known it.

“I’m not being weird.” I fiddle with my napkin.

“You are. You have that look.” She points at my face. “Same one you had when you broke my favorite mug in college and didn’t tell me for three weeks.”

Think fast.

“Okay, you got me.” I force a smile. “I... I met someone.”