“Literallywhenwould I have the time to do that? The most downtime I’ve had this month is when I got my highlights done last week, and I spent most of that appointment fighting with James about his advertising budget.”
“I heard. I think you made him cry.” Simon gave a breathy laugh that told me he was kidding.
I pulled at a stray strand of hair. “Well, he ruined my shampoo-conditioner scalp massage, so now my hair looks like this.”
Simon tucked a few loose tendrils behind my ear, and his gaze lingered, softening in a way that undid me more than the grin. “Your hair is perfect. You’re gorgeous.” He landed a warm kiss on my bare knee. “And smart.”
He thinks I’m gorgeous. And smart.
Dopamine surged through my system at the words. But I couldn’t let him change the subject yet.
“InfoSynth is the right play. I’m sure,” I countered. “But getting to Beau Walker is going to be the complicated bit.”
“I can be very persuasive,” he said. The hand he had on my knee skated toward my thigh now, and heat rushed in right along with it. And like it often did when I had Simon’s attention, it felt like the universe was bending to my pitch.
As he leaned in to kiss me, I pulled out my phone and set my alarm. “You’ve got thatWiredinterview in the morning. The journalist will be calling on East Coast time. We can’t stay up too late.”
“I can be fast, slow. Whatever you want.” He smirked and started trailing kisses down my shoulder.
Sex with a side of business strategy. I liked this. I was good at this.
This was what loyalty in my twenties looked like—eyes closed, feetfirst.
I should have asked more questions, should have slowed down long enough to see the cracks. But I didn’t want to protect myself. I wantedthis.
My body downshifted from dealmaking, and as he pulled my shirt off, I let myself lean into the heat of his touch.
Chapter 7
Thirteen Days Before the Hurricane
Turning in to Gemma’s apartment complex—a cluster of low peach buildings with tired palms and a cracked sign that readsWinter Oakin chipped paint on a sun-warped placard—my stomach lurches. The complex looks so quiet. So ordinary.
I guess the terrible news hasn’t reached this part of town yet.
Her apartment is near the main office, and I scan for her car—a red Nissan Sentra named Betty. But it’s not there, and her apartment windows are dark.
The idea comes to me quickly, and I throw my car into park before I can change my mind.
“OhmyGod!” Panting, I burst through the front door of the apartment’s leasing office. An older woman jerks forward in her seat at the sound of my voice. “I fucked up. Like seriously fucked up. I’m supposed to be cat-sitting for my friend in unit 2B.” I’m talking fast, not giving her room to question me as I reach her desk. “Betty—my friend’s cat—has a heart condition. Pills every twelve hours or she croaks. And my friend had to work, so I said I’d come over to give her the pills. But I left her spare key at my place. You have to help me, or Betty’s a goner. Please? Can I borrow your key? Long enough to give her her meds?”
The woman’s face pinches, either worried about the cat or convinced I’m out of my mind.
“Please,” I beg, letting the grief crack my voice.
I just need to see it. Maybe then I can believe she’s gone.
The woman walks to a wall-mounted case, retrieving a key. “Two minutes,” she says and smiles sweetly. “I’m not supposed to do this. But we cat lovers have to stick together, right?”
“I’ll be right back,” I promise.
I just need…something.Something to unmake this nightmare.
As I let myself into the apartment, I know I’m being crazy. I’m mid-lecture, in fact—telling myself I shouldn’t be here—when the scent hits me. Not the cloying rot of something gone wrong, only the faint trace of a lived-in space. Drugstore shampoo. A candle with a name like Coastal Birch or First Snow.
Gemma.
The blinds are drawn, and the kitchen is immaculate—not a dish on the counter or a coffee mug in the sink.
