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“Skylar, wait!”
Brandon’s words fell on deaf ears as I rushed upstairs, only able to hear the roaring of my inner thoughts. I hadn’t wasted time watching any kind of exchange between him and that woman, nor did I allow her to see more of my naked ass longer than it took to beeline out of the room. It took me approximately fifteen seconds to reach the bedroom, fifteen seconds to feel exactly like a teapot ready to boil.
His wife. The words kept filtering through my ears, like a bad record snagged on repeat. Hiswife? I threw the few things I had brought to the house into my purse, stumbling about his bedroom looking for the rest of my things. Ana had somehow already laid my ironed suit on the bed. Of course it had to be the ugly brown one I’d bought at Daffy’s before even graduating college—ofcoursethat was the suit I’d be wearing when I faced off with Jackie Onassis downstairs, a woman who not only looked like she’d just walked off the cover ofVogue, but who also happened to be Brandon’s wife.
A sob came, hard and fast, choking the back of my throat and swallowed back as quick. I wasn’t going to cry. I wasnotgoing to cry with that woman here to see. Goddamnit, where was my bra? With a stifled shriek, I realized that if Ana hadn’t brought it up, it was probably still lying somewhere in the living room, just a few feet away from where Her Royal Highness was standing. The thought resurrected more memories of the very intimate things he had done to me down there. Last night. Many nights. All while he was married.
Fuck.
With trembled hands, I managed to put on my pants and jacket, keeping the Red Sox t-shirt on as I also couldn’t find my blouse. I shoved my feet into the sensible brown pumps that I’d bought on clearance at DSW. I would have killed for my Manolos right now.
If I had forgotten anything else, Brandon could fucking have it. I needed to get out of here as soon as possible. I grabbed my coat and bag from the closet by the door and ran out, barely registering the argument Brandon andshewere having in the kitchen.
Outside, a blast of frigid rain hit my face. I hardly noticed the inclement weather; all I could think about was how phenomenally stupid I had been.
How could I have not known this? I knew how to do research, and if any of the clients at the clinic had taught me anything, it was that people were capable of all sorts of treachery. People broke the law all the time. People lied. People had skeletons in about ten different closets. Why would Brandon be any different? HisWikipediapage was obviously edited to omit this very important detail of his life; the only thing it had said about his personal life was a list of charities he supported. No doubt a slightly more thorough search would have revealed a wife. Maybe even a family.
Complicated, Kieran had said.Sometimes a prince is really the devil in disguise. Christ. I’d convinced myself that she was supportive of our relationship, but she was actually trying to warn me off. She’d yelled at a client about a woman named Miranda just yesterday and practically invited me to listen. Everything clicked together. Kieran wasn’t working on business deals; she was Brandon’s divorce lawyer. And she’d watched, pitifully, as I’d been ensnared by a client she knew to be bad news, but about whom she could say nothing.
I choked back another sob. No, I was going to hold this in, wait until I was safely under a hot shower where no one—not even Jane—could witness my heartbreak. I focused on the biting wind; the rain sent icy streams down the collar of my jacket. I picked up my pace.
The familiar red and white T sign was only a half block away when I heard my name rise out of the storm.
“Skylar!” Brandon yelled again. He was clearly out of breath.
A hand on my elbow jerked me to a stop, and I whirled to face him.
He had dressed as hastily as I had in whatever was most readily available: a pair of jeans, one of his zillions of undershirts, his worn Red Sox hat, and untied sneakers. He looked nothing like the billionaire lawyer whose face had been on the front page of magazines. Instead, he looked just like any other guy from Boston, without a coat in the middle of a nasty downpour.
The thin t-shirt was pasted to his body, translucent like some kind of frigid version of a wet t-shirt contest. If I hadn’t felt so angry, I might have appreciated the way the thin material clung to every square line of his pectorals, every chiseled edge of his abs. He sucked in air like his life depended on it—for him to have gotten dressed and still caught me before I entered the station meant he must have sprinted across the park. For a moment, I wanted to throw myself into his big arms and pretend none of this had happened. But only for a moment.
“Fuck off, Brandon,” I spat, turning around. The Park Street T-stop glowed like a beacon.
Puddles soaked my pants up to my calves. Again, my arm was grabbed, and I would have fallen over if Brandon’s strong chest hadn’t been there to catch me.
“I said fuck off!” I pushed him away, although it had little effect. “I don’t want to talk to you, asshole! What don’t you get about that?”
Before he could answer, I darted down the escalators, thankfully void of people so early on a Saturday morning. I could hear his footsteps following, but I focused instead on locating my Charlie card so I could zip through the turnstiles. Brandon didn’t even have his wallet.
“Skylar!” he called as I slid my card through the reader.
Behind me, I heard a grumble and a distinct “Fuck it” before a loud thump and the sound of feet hitting the pavement. When I turned to check, he was on the other side of the turnstiles and wasn’t putting anything back in his pockets.
“So we’re back to this?” he asked in between still-heavy gasps. “Chasing you down everywhere you go. I’m starting to feel like I’m training for a marathon.”
“Did you just jump the fucking turnstiles?” I asked incredulously.
Brandon smirked, which made me want to smack him and kiss him. “Keep it down, Ms. Goody-goody. What did you expect me to do?”
“I expected you not to commit a Class A misdemeanor,” I snapped. A train was just pulling out of the station, and there were no others approaching. Fucking weekend schedule. “You’re probably the richest man in Boston—”
“Third richest, actually.”
“I don’t give a shit,” I bit out. “This is ridiculous. I don’t want to fucking talk to you, so just go back home to yourwife.”
I spat out the last word so hard it practically cut my tongue. I congratulated myself for keeping my voice from shaking. Brandon scowled and shivered. His arms were a vibrant red from the cold, and he rubbed them absently while he sucked in another lungful of air.
“Skylar,” he said slowly. “Please. You have to let me talk.”
