"Grant!"
"Sorry, babe. You are fucking me too good, and there's no way I'm coming before you do."
I pull one of her legs up to rest on my shoulder so I can push myself deep inside her, and I rut against her as I bring my thumb up and massage her clit.
"Right there. Don't stop. Keep touching me and fucking me right there."
I can feel her grip on me tightening, and I keep the pace, almost punishing her pussy. I watch as she grips the sheets and twists her head from side to side, and then she whispers my name as she locks her eyes with mine and gives in to her orgasm.
My spine tingles as I feel her clench around me, and I know I can't hold back. My thrusts become erratic, and I follow her into ecstasy.
In this moment of bliss, it's like every piece of my life finally makes sense.
thirty-nine
. . .
Sophia
Time hasa funny way of slipping through your fingers when you're not paying attention. One minute, I was carefully navigating the delicate rules of a casual arrangement, and the next, I was helping Hazel practice her lines forthe school playwhile making breakfast in Grant's kitchen. Our kitchen? The thought still makes my stomach flutter.
The guest house sits empty now. I haven't slept there in weeks since I picked Hazel up from school when she was sick. My own house is ready, but somehow, I keep finding reasons not to move back just yet. A late-night script review turns into breakfast, which turns into a whole day, which turns into another night. The transition has been so gradual that I barely noticed it happening until Hazel asked if we could turn the guest house into an art studio "since you stay in Daddy's room now anyway."
"Five minutes to curtain!" The drama teacher's voice echoes through the school auditorium, pulling me from my thoughts. I adjust my position in the auditorium chair, carefulnot to draw attention. So far, no one's recognized me—the benefits of an elementary school crowd more focused on their own kids than celebrity-spotting.
Grant squeezes my hand, a gesture that's become as natural as breathing. "You ok?" he asks.
"Perfect." And I am, really, even with the flutter of cameras I spotted outside the school. It's the first time we've been photographed together since the gala and with Hazel.
Geneva arrives just before the lights dim, and she slides into the seat next to Grant's with an apologetic smile and a whispered explanation about traffic. Watching them interact gives me that familiar twist in my gut—not jealousy exactly, more like awareness. They move with the easy choreography of people who share a child. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm crazy to think I can fit into this carefully balanced equation, but I'm grateful for the openness and kindness Geneva has shown me.
The show is adorable in that earnest, elementary school way, with Hazel stealing every scene as one of the classmates beamed up into space. During the finale, I catch Grant wiping his eyes, and my heart squeezes painfully in my chest. This man, whom the world sees as an untouchable studio executive, is crying at his daughter's school musical. This is the Grant so few people get to see.
"Mom! Dad! Sophia!" Hazel's voice carries across the crowd afterward, riding the high of performance. She launches herself at us, still wearing half her costume makeup. "Did you see when I did the spin? I didn't drop anything!"
"You were amazing, sweetheart," Geneva says, beaming as she smooths Hazel's hair. "Definitely ready forBroadway."
"Oh, my God, is that Sophia Ford?"
"Look, it's Geneva!"
The whispers start rippling through the crowd, followed by the distinctive clicking of phone cameras.
"Celebratory dinner?" Grant suggests quickly, his hand finding the small of my back. "I can have Emma make us reservations at Firefly."
He escorts us out of the auditorium swiftly, managing to dodge most of the cameras waiting outside.
We arrive at the restaurant and settle in the relative privacy of our curtained cabana on the patio. As Hazel regales us with backstage stories while demolishing a plate of pasta, Geneva shares updates about her latest runway show, and Grant and I pretend we're not getting calls from Lucas about growing press interest.
"Sophia?" Geneva catches me in the hallway outside the restroom. "Can we talk for a minute?"
My heart skips, but her smile is genuine. "I just… I wanted to say thank you. For how you are with Hazel. And with Grant." She touches my arm lightly. "I haven't seen him this happy in years."
"I'm not trying to replace?—"
"I know. That's part of why this works. You're not trying to be anything except yourself." Her expression grows serious. "But the press is starting to notice. They're going to try to make this messy, create drama where there isn't any. Don't let them."
My phone buzzes in my purse, followed immediately by Geneva's. The synchronized alerts make my stomach drop.
