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Her question was his cue to go, and he bent to pick up his shirt.
He looked at her lying there, her chest rising and falling under the sheet she had covered herself with. She was still breathing heavily and undoubtedly sore. He had wanted to lean over and kiss her forehead before she fell asleep, but that would definitely be against her rules.
“Well, good night,” he had whispered instead, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans so he wouldn’t succumb to the urge to touch her.
He had gone downstairs and let himself out, turning back to the front door to jimmy the handle while leaning his weight against the wood to make sure it was locked.
Now, in the darkness of the car, the website’s checkout screen glowed with hope and possibility. Satisfied with his shopping spree, he clicked next-day delivery.
* * *
Dumbass.He had forgotten to set the alarm last night, and now he was late.
It was almost ten o’clock when he got to the network—very professional—and lunchtime came early.
Rich leaned into the doorway of his office like he often did. “Sandwich shop’s delivering. Working lunch.” He pointed to the conference room. “We need to nail down the storyboards for Scandinavia.”
For the next several hours, they laid out story arcs and itineraries around the people and places Jonathan planned to feature, with a few additions—advertisers, of course—after Clay, the showrunner, deemed to grace them with his presence.
On the rare occasions Jonathan watched a finished episode from start to finish, just how much work went into those forty-four minutes always surprised him.
When they broke around four o’clock, he slipped out to get some caffeine, skipping the first four coffee shops he passed to stay out in the fresh air a few minutes longer.
He darted into the fifth—surprisingly, there was no line—and left with a double espresso in one hand and a skinny soy latte, his assistant’s favorite, in the other, propping the door with his shoulder for an incoming customer.
On the street, he turned uptown, glancing at the pedestrians coming his way before he realized one was staring wide-eyed right at him. Delphine.
“Hey,” he started, “how are . . .” Her expression changed instantly from wondering to wounded, hurt clear in her eyes.
She turned away quickly, jaywalking into traffic.
A taxi squealed to a stop, and she pounded on the hood. “Connard!” he saw her yell, although he could barely hear it.Asshole!
That, he was sure, she intended more for him than the driver.
He didn’t blame her. That he had thought about his cheating a lot since it happened was an understatement. And he still had not figured out the real answer:Why?
Because if you had asked him, right up to the point when he flirted with Anna and snuck into that fucking airport shower stall, he would have answered that—checkboxes all ticked—he had a fine marriage.
That he still hadn’t identified the real reason for cheating made him question what kind of man he actually was—and whether he could trust himself to be loyal to someone new.
Mainly, it had been a theoretical question, until the last couple of nights of rock-your-world sex with Quinn. As much as he tried not to think beyond her next text, their chemistry ignited in him the prospect of more.
The phone vibrating with a call brought him back to reality as he crossed the intersection, and his dick perked at the thought it might be her. But she wasn’t likely to get in touch this soon, and so far she preferred texting.
Still, hope and erection sprang eternal, and he took a seat on the next available bench, crossed his legs to hide the wood, and set down the coffee drinks beside him.
That’s all the network needed—for him of all people to get stopped for public lewdness, or whatever it was called when you got a hard-on that might be apparent to random strangers on the street.
By the time he pulled out the phone, he had a waiting voice mail.
“Jonathan, hi. It’s Leigh. Thanks again for coming to dinner at Quinn’s the other night. She asked me for your number and said she might reach out to bounce ideas . . .”
He smiled at the unintended euphemism. If last night was Quinn’s way of bouncing ideas, he would serve as her sounding board any time.
“. . . I’m just calling to ask you to encourage her however you can. She still seems fragile, but she needs to get another book written. Soon. She keeps saying her heart’s not in it, but that needs to change. She needs to change that. Her publisher needs her to change that.
“She valued your input when you worked with us before. Could you maybe brainstorm with her or whatever she needs to push forward? Let me know if I can facilitate. And if you don’t mind, no need to share with her I called.”
