When we got home Jason was on the patio with his laptop open, phone in hand. He looked up, smiled like he was trying and went back to whatever mattered more.
Sunday night arrived in a hush. I lay in bed beside Jason, the room lit only by the blue screen of his phone. He was tapping through emails, answering one last thing like always.
I stared at the ceiling. Maybe we should be intimate. Maybe it would help. Maybe it would get me out of the clouds with my thoughts of Will.
I turned toward him; slowly, unsure if I had the energy to try. Before I could say anything, he shifted, still looking at his screen.
“I have an early flight,” he said. He set his alarm, dropped his phone on the nightstand and turned on his side, away from me. Within minutes, his breathing deepened.
I sighed quietly and grabbed my own phone, the screen lighting up the dark. My finger hovered as I scrolled over Will’s name.
I could text him right now. But about what exactly at 10:30 on a Sunday night? Guilt crept in before I could finish the thought. I shut my phone off and set it back down on my own nightstand, the weight of it still lingering in my hand.
I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep without thinking about the way Will’s hand had brushed against mine at the gate. His fingers, warm, deliberate. The kind of touch that stayed with you. That made your skin remember. That made you wonder if you’d imagined it, or if you just wanted to.
I told myself it was nothing. But it didn’t feel like nothing.
CHAPTER 4
MILE HIGH TEMPTATION
JASON
It was six a.m., and I was on my way to the airport—my new life schedule: Chicago, New York, San Francisco, and sometimes LA for a quick trip or an overnight stay. Always on the go, and I liked it that way. The more I worked, the deeper I immersed myself in it, and the more money my company made. Hustle was the only way I knew how to be.
My parents always set high expectations for me; I was expected to outdo myself. My mother loved to brag. Those expectations never left me. I guess I’m always striving to be the best at anything.
I was a collegiate athlete, midfielder on the lacrosse team, top of my class at Princeton, and a business degree from the University of Chicago. I thought of myself as quiet, independent, disciplined.
I met Natalie during business school, around the same time I started working with my best friend, Danny. Both of us workinghard for his dad’s hedge fund company. Danny’s younger sister, Katie, went to college with Natalie. She kept chirping in my ear about her pretty friend, Natalie. She wasn’t wrong.
I remember the first time I saw her. She was a natural beauty, and she seemed quiet, reserved, not the type to seek attention, which only made her more intriguing. Being around her was easy. She never demanded anything, always going with the flow. She still does.
For our entire relationship, she’s let me do my thing, never questioning, never pushing.
When she got pregnant with Bebe, she quit her job without hesitation, slipping seamlessly into motherhood. No complaints. No resistance. She made my life easier, allowing me to focus entirely on my business. As time went on, I was home less and less, but it worked. It had to.
Which is why I was on a six a.m. Monday flight, not returning until late Thursday or Friday. Saturdays were for my family. I did love those moments, but honestly, I’m always so drained from the work week...the traveling, the late nights, the constant energy I had to put into everything, I normally have very little left to give.
By the time I settled into my first-class seat, the East Coast was already wide awake. I pulled out my laptop, ready to dig into emails when the flight attendant came down the aisle.
The woman next to me, a tall, blonde professional in a tailored pantsuit, looked up.
“A Pellegrino with lime,” she said smoothly. She glanced at me and smirked. “It’s like drinking without the alcohol.”
I gave a half-chuckle.
“Though maybe I do need a stiff drink,” she added.
“No judgment,” I said.
She extended a well-manicured hand. “Sherri Baker.” Her handshake was firm, her skin soft.
“Jason Bradford.”
“What do you do for work, Jason?”
“I manage a hedge fund. You?”
