Tryst

I could try too.

I tap out a quick reply, confused by his cryptic statement.

Try what?

To forget you.

Ok.

My heart sinks, but he can’t know that. It would only complicate things further, and make it that much harder to let go.

Is that what you want?

He’s asking me if I want him to forget me, as if he knows it’s ripping me up inside, turning muscle and organs into shreds of bloody despair. In a desperate plea, my traitorous heart is screaming No. No, Ransom, don’t forget me. But my head slices through like a hot knife to butter, silencing the weaker vessel.

That’s what I need.

Ok. I’ll try. But I can’t promise you anything.

Thank you.

I don’t know why I say that, but it seems appropriate.

So will you still be my publicist?

Of course.

So you’ll still be there for me when I need you to be?

That’s my job.

Your job, huh?

I roll my eyes but find myself smiling down at the screen.

Yes, Ransom.

I hope he can feel the playful exasperation in my words.

Good. Because I need you. Now.

I almost drop my phone, imagining his mouth saying those words to me, his lips whispering in my ear as he expresses this uncontrollable need for me.

I need to ask you something.

The text comes in before I can conjure up any more ridiculous scenarios.

Why?

Just come out to the hall. I’ll step out so you know where my room is.

I’m texting that it’s not a good idea, it’s inappropriate, it’s wrong, it’s late, yada yada yada, when another text comes in.

Come on, H. I heard you loud & clear. I won’t touch you, I swear. Just give me 5 min.

I look over at my husband, the sated man I love sleeping next to me with remnants of our love making a dried, flaky, white souvenir on his soft cock. I don’t feel him between my thighs anymore. It still aches, but not for him.

My fingers tremble over the touchpad of my phone. Five minutes with my client. Even Justice can’t deny that interaction is necessary.

Ok. Give me 2.

I shuffle to the bathroom and quickly run a brush through my hair and swish some mouthwash around to expel the stale taste of champagne. I’m in a flimsy, coral applique nightgown and nothing else. If I change, it’ll look like I’m expecting more than just a five-minute conversation, and I didn’t pack any sweats. I decide the matching robe will have to do, and even though I’m supposed to be keeping up the ruse that this is totally casual and even a bit inconvenient, I dab on a little sheer lip gloss and pinch my cheeks. I’m going to hell, but at least I won’t be alone.

I step into the hall barefoot and look down the hall. Lounging in the doorway of his room, wearing nothing but basketball shorts much like the ones he wore yesterday, stands Ransom Reed. His hair is sexily tousled as if he had been in bed while he was texting me, and it looks like his already tan skin has taken in some sun. He dips his head forward, training those dark, deceptive eyes on me, before tilting it to one side, signaling for me to come to him. I hesitate for a breath, and collect my senses. I promised Justice. I promised myself. I won’t throw away a solid marriage and a good man for some kid. He’s twenty-four . . . of course he’s hot and ready to go on command. At that age, he’s nothing more than a walking, talking hard-on.

“Let’s get this over with,” I say as I approach, my voice much more icy than I intend. Ransom doesn’t even flinch. It’s as if he’s becoming immune to my bullshit.

“Come in.” He moves inside to let me in. When I pass, I catch the word inscribed in silver on his door.

Temptation.

Justice Drake, you patronizing fucker.

I ignore it and step inside, my arms crossed over my chest protectively. I’ve never felt unsafe with Ransom, not even when he was tripping off oxy and blow. But now that I’m here alone with him, in a dimly lit bedroom outfitted in lush reds, blacks, and grays, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so afraid. Not of him. Of myself, and what my body wants. And what I’m capable of doing to satisfy it.

“Have a seat,” he says, offering an oversize, cranberry armchair. He didn’t offer the bed. That’s a good sign. He goes over to the small kitchenette and opens the mini fridge. “Water? Tea? Wine?”

“Wine, please.” I know it’s a mistake the very second I ask for it, but I need something to take the edge off. Something to keep me from ripping off this satin robe and mounting Ransom against the mahogany chest of drawers.

He cracks the seal of a small bottle and pours me a glass. I take it with a grateful smile and watch as he plants himself on the bed across from me.

“So?” My throat is coated with broken glass, so I take a swig to wash it down.

“So.”

“You said you had a question, Ransom.”

“Right. I do.”

I make an aggravated noise that sounds too much like a moan. I could have been riding my husband right now after waking him up with my hot mouth. Or shit . . . I could be masturbating. Being here is like walking a tightrope with no net underneath. I know I’ll fall, and on some level I want to, just to get it over with. But I know the plunge will kill me. And right now, with the suspense piercing my resolve like a thousand little ice picks, leaping to my death seems less and less daunting.

Seeing the irritation play across my features, Ransom finally puts me out of my misery after taking a deep breath. “Caleb . . . what did he say about me? What was his explanation?”

I take a sip of wine and look around the room. Against the blood-stained walls are black and white photos of men, women, and couples. All naked. All rooted in their own passion, completely oblivious to the camera’s lens. They’re erotic, yes, but not pornographic. They’re beautiful. They’ve created art with nothing but their skin.

“That you’re an addict,” I finally answer, tearing my eyes from the series of grayscale flesh. “And while he seems to believe you have it under control, sometimes you break and need to get away for a while. Hence our little cross-country excursion.”

He lifts a brow. “And that’s all? That’s all he told you?”

“Is there more?” I want to ask him, how much worse can it get? But think better of it. I honestly don’t know what’s ailing him, and until I do, it’s better not to aggravate him.

He answers, “No,” yet the frown deep between his brows seems uncertain. “Yes, I am. And yes, it’s under control. I’m sorry for how I acted that night you found me at the bar, and I’m sorry for what I said to you. Well, most of it at least.”

“Most of it?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything about Tucker or your marriage. That was out of line. And I shouldn’t have insinuated that you were there for anything more than to put my ass to sleep and make sure I didn’t swallow my own tongue.”

My voice is a whisper on ice, skating across the diamond planes. “You remember that?”

“Yeah. Remember that slap you gave me too. Damn, H. You’ve got one helluva arm.” He laughs and rubs his jaw that’s lightly dusted with dark stubble. “But I deserved it. And again, I’m sorry.”

I nod, accepting his apology, although there’s really nothing to forgive. Can I really blame him for feeling used by me?

“You said you were sorry for most of what you said. What aren’t you sorry for?” I ask, emboldened by the wine.

Ransom shrugs and looks down at his callused hands. “Fill in the blanks, H. Don’t you remember? You were sober that night.”