Page 1 of Holding Penalty

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PIPER

I’m sitting in the back of a limo, next to my fiancé, wearing a dress I maxed out my credit card for, when my life falls apart.

We’re being driven back home from an event his company held at a swanky country club outside of Austin, Texas.

The limo was his idea. We have to keep up appearances and not let him be outshined by the other junior executives looking to impress their bosses in the image-obsessed finance industry, after all.

Me maxing out my credit card was also his idea. We can’t let his coworkers think that he can’t afford to buy his fiancée the best clothes for important industry events, after all.

Even though he literally can’t. Hence my maxed-out credit card.

But he reminded me that just one week from now, when we get married, and the inheritance I’ve been waiting for finally hits my account a couple months later, paying off the debt will be no big deal. So, I went along with it, even though I think the obsession with appearances among the people he works with is stupid.

Actually, I know it’s stupid.

Not that I don’t enjoy looking good as hell in a dress I have no business buying, don’t get me wrong.

I’m not against irresponsibly splurging for a fun night—as a matter of fact, it’s one of my favorite things to do—but tonight wasn’t even fun. “Splurging” to impress a bunch of stuck-up, boring finance bros? Ugh, it gives me a sour taste in my mouth.

But it’s for Crew’s career, so I try to swallow it down. The free flutes of top-shelf champagne at the club helped with that, at least.

Crew has his phone out, trying to pull up a meme to show me. He and some of his coworkers were laughing their heads off over earlier. Apparently, it’s relatable if you work in finance. As a baker, I probably won’t get the joke, but Crew has dutifully sat through plenty of occasions where I showed him memes he didn’t understand, so I’ll be a good partner and do the same.

“Here it is,” he says, excitement in his voice. It’s cute that he’s enthusiastic about showing me something, even if it’s not at all in my wheelhouse. Just like I get excited yapping to him about whichever book I’m reading, even though I know he couldn’t really care less. So, I summon a smile and try to seem invested.

“Hold this, I’m going to refill my drink,” he tells me.

I take the phone as the video starts to play, while he turns and fumbles with the liquor bottles in the built-in backseat bar.

Instantly, my attention zeroes in on his phone screen, so much so that even my lungs forget to work, breath staying trapped in my throat.

Not because of the video that’s playing. The sound from it doesn’t register with my ears, nor do my eyes watch the images.

No, I’m looking at what just popped up above it, at the top of the screen. A notification.

I know you told me not to text this number, but putting on this underwear made me remember that time in your office when …

The rest of the message is cut off, but I can see that a photo is attached.

I feel my hand move to click on the notification. It’s a robotic motion, like someone else is controlling my limbs. The strangely calm, dissociative feeling remains as my eyes take in the text thread that opens.

The first thing I see is the picture. It’s a woman. A mirror selfie. Full-length. She’s wearing a light-blue, lacy bra-and-panties set, the thin material leaving very little to the imagination.

Then, my eyes scan over the text. Apparently, what this woman is remembering from Crew’s office involved the surface of his desk, creative use of a necktie, and—I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—him finishing way too soon.

I sense that Crew has stopped fiddling around with the alcohol. I feel him sitting attentively straight, his eyes latched to the same thing mine are. It’s strange, though. He feels distant. Like he’s miles away, even though our shoulders touch.

It hits me that maybe that’s how it’s always felt with him.

My gaze ticks up to the last exchange of messages, about two weeks ago.

I need you so bad right now, the unnamed number says to my fiancé.

Then Crew’s response, telling her not to use this number anymore, and giving another number I don’t recognize.

“Piper, it’s totally not what it looks like.” Crew’s voice seems distant, too, like he’s standing outside the limo and I’m barely hearing the dull vibration of his words through the closed door.