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I glance over my shoulder, my stomach knotting. Velvety peach ranunculus stand tall, wedged against sunbursts of yellow dahlias. Tall, willowy delphinium petals spill down their stalks in a violet-blue waterfall. Scattered throughout are splashes of blush-pink roses and lacelike baby’s breath. Itisa beautiful bouquet.
“Who’s Katerina?” Jack says, pointing to the card I set against it when they entered the store.
“That’s me,” I admit. “My full name.”
Jack frowns. “Do you like it?”
I bite my cheek, hearing in my head Christopher’s deep voice, the way he saysKaterinathat makes the hairs on my neck standon end, that sends heat searing through my veins. “It’s complicated.”
“Well,” Tia says on a smile, “whoever sent them must be quite the admirer.”
“Or they’ve got quite the apology to make.” Hugh throws his wife a look. “Not that I have any experience needing a bouquet like that to make amends, right, baby?”
“Bleh,” Jack says as his parents link their fingers together and Hugh kisses Tia’s hand.
“When you have,” she says, “it always worked.”
“Think it’ll work for you?” Jack asks.
I peer at the bouquet, a weird, woozy feeling in my limbs that has nothing to do with last night’s poor decisions lingering in my system.
I don’t begin to know how to answer his question.
•TWELVE•
Christopher
I’m tired, on edge, and shaky, after riding a rough migraine through most of the night and suffering through what little sleep I did get, which was tortured by dreams I can’t admit or let myself dwell on.
Because they were straight from hell.
A long, willowy body pressed against mine. None of the curves my hands typically seek, nothing soft or yielding—just sharp angles, blissful bite marks, ruthless nails scraping down my back. A hoarse, smoky voice crying my name while I sucked and licked, dragged her legs wide open and—
The ding of my laptop announcing a calendar reminder abruptly ends those thoughts. I press my palms to my eyes and breathe deeply, envisioning a slow, painful walk into a frigid lake.
I need to get laid.
The past two weeks since Kate came home and upendedeverything, I’ve abandoned my routine—a meal at the bar, a flirtatious conversation and then a frank one (I’m yours all night. Only one night. No repeats.), then a hotel room, the exhilarating challenge of a new body to learn and become an expert of, the thrill of wrenching orgasm after orgasm from her, the blissful mindlessness of my own release.
I don’t care to examine why the past few weeks have gone the way they have. No matter why I haven’t been getting out andgetting laid—given my foul mood, my hopelessly erotic dreams—that needs to change.
I need a good hard night of fucking. A luxurious meal. One nice glass of red wine. And a beautiful woman by 10 p.m. beneath me, on top of me, beside me—hell, whatever way she wants it. I’ll get back into my routine and reset. No problem. Easy.
This is what I always do.
Which is why it makes no sense that when I start to draft an email to Curtis, my assistant, to clear my schedule after five and make a reservation at one of my favorite places, I can’t seem to make myself do it.
Shit.Shit.
This is bad.
I push back from my desk, reaching for my coat.
“Curtis!” I bark. “Going for a walk.”
“You’re due back in thirty,” he calls as I storm by.
“Got it.”
