Page 50 of Sealing the Deal

“I think it’s more than creating an air of ruthlessness,” I say, turning fully toward him. There’s barely space between us now. My body tingles with the warmth of his body. I tilt my head to meet his eyes. “I think you believe you’re a bad person. I think that’s why you keep pushing yourself to do good, to help; even when you’re already at breaking point, you take on more.”

He shifts back in the small space. “There are things you don’t understand.”

I move forward, closing the gap once more. “And I think you want me. But every time you realize it, you pull back. Why?”

He doesn’t reply. The silence stretches between us feeling taut and dangerous.

“What happened five years ago?” I ask softly.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do.” I step closer until there’s almost no air left between us, until I can feel the tension humming in his body like a live wire. “I’m not fragile, and I’m not broken,” I say, my voice steady even as my pulse races with just how much I want to touch and be touched by this man. “I don’t need you, Grayson. I don’t need your money or your help or your safety net. I was fine before you, and I’ll be fine after you.”

My gaze drops to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

“I don’t need your hands on my body,” I whisper. “I don’t need to know what it would feel like to kiss you.”

I close the last inch between us, my breath brushing his cheek.

“But I want to.”

My fingers graze his jacket. My heart pounds against my ribs.

“And I think you want me too.”

“Flic—” His tone isn’t a warning anymore. It’s rough and full of need.

And fuck if it doesn’t undo me completely.

Grayson’s restraint finally snaps. In one movement, his hands slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I feel the solid line of his body, the strength in his arms, the heat of him through my dress and straight into my core. My breath catches as his palms move up to frame my face like he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go.

His eyes are dark and when he leans in, there’s nothing careful left about it. “Do you really want me to kiss you?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

Still, he holds back, teetering on the edge. My head tilts, lips part, body ready and wanting.

The elevator doors slide open, but neither of us moves. It feels like I’m caught in his orbit; every instinct in my body is screaming not to step away. Screaming at Grayson to kiss me.

A woman’s voice drifts across the apartment, light and amused and unmistakably intimate. “Is that my gorgeous husband home at last?”

Husband.

Shock floods me first, then a hot, humiliating hurt. I pull away from Grayson’s arms, needing space and to search his face. To see confusion or amusement or anything that tells me this isn’t what it sounds like. But all I see in his expression is horror. The brutal truth slams into place. Grayson Ashborne is married.

TWENTY-TWO

GRAYSON

Ana is drunk. She’s sprawled over the couch like she’s been thrown across the room and dropped there. Her long limbs are folded awkwardly beneath her. There’s an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table and a glass tipped on its side on the rug. I doubt it’s her first bottle of the evening.

The woman I married was willowy and full of energy. She was smart and witty and loved to laugh and did so often, tipping back her head, unaware or unbothered by those who turned to stare. Ana used to be a woman who chased moments. Midnight swims and spontaneous flights. New cities, new ideas, new versions of herself. She talked to strangers like they were old friends and never worried about tomorrow. But there was always that haunted look in her eyes when she stood still for too long. Being with Ana was like standing on the edge of a beautiful, wild precipice. And I mistook vertigo for love.

The version of Ana in front of me is still beautiful, but it’s haunting now, stretched thin over fragility. I haven’t seen Ana in two years, and the change in her is hard to look at.

This is my fault.

Flic stands frozen two steps into the apartment, her expression shuttered as she stares at Ana. My wife’s pink dress is wrinkled, one strap slipping off her shoulder. There’s mascara smudged beneath her eyes. Her red hair, once thick and glossy, hangs limp around her shoulders. She’s a mess.