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SABRINA

Footsteps sound in the hall.

My heart picks up. Quick as a flash, he disposes of the condom in a trash can in the corner and zips his pants. I drop off the shelf and snap my panties back in place. We both freeze as the footsteps get closer.

The doorknob turns.

I inhale, eyes huge.

Then, it stops. The person on the other end swears, I hear a phone ringing, and they start walking again.

“Oh my God, we need to leave,” I gasp.

He laughs softly, cocking his head and waiting. Silence falls. Carefully, he turns the handle, and we spring from the closet. My head is still buzzing from the wine—or maybe it’s from the sex. My pumps clatter across the floor and skid to a halt, falling against his side. He yanks open a back exit—I don’t think we’re supposed to use this door, but he’s Coen Taylor—and we spill into the back lot.

“Oh God, we could have been caught,” I gasp.

He bends, kissing me thoroughly. “Worth it.”

We both inhale. His arm is around my neck, his hand on my waist. Overhead, through all the light pollution and glowing streetlamps, I can just make out the stars. They’re the same stars as back home, the ones I’ve always wanted to see from a different place on Earth. Instead of feeling homesick, a sense of comfort steals over me, a sense of belonging, despite being hundreds of miles from home.

I glance at him sideways.

I think he has something to do with that.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“Starving. And drunk. Sober me up,” I say. “Feed me, then maybe fuck me again.”

He laughs, taking out his phone. “All those things, I can do.”

A taxi takes us back, and we step into the glossy lobby and are whisked to the hotel’s restaurant. It’s the most upscale place I’ve ever set foot in. My heels clip on marble as he leads me through the tables to a single, barely lit corner booth. The host hands us two menus, just slips of paper, and disappears.

“This is…nice,” I say looking around.

He’s looking only at me. “I wanted you to be spoiled for a night,” he says.

“Well, I feel spoiled.”

He leans back as a waiter appears to set down a bottle of wine. It’s on the house, because of course it is. We place additional drink orders, and then we’re alone again.

“So when you’re famous, you really just get things handed to you,” I say.

“Yes,” he says frankly. “It shouldn’t be that way, because I can pay for it.”

He pours me a glass of wine, and I have a sip, thinking about that. I like that he can critique it, that he’s willing to do that. He’s careful and honest, both qualities I admire deeply, it turns out. That’s not surprising, considering I grew up knowing what my father did.

My stomach twists.

I look across the table at Coen. My father impressed on me not to trust men, and he used himself as an example. It’s never occurred to me until now that doing that had to take a level of introspection I never gave him credit for. Maybe the reason he never married again was because he couldn’t promise himself he wouldn’t do it again. Perhaps he was protecting someone from himself. Or maybe he was protecting his daughters from seeing that side of him.

My heart aches, in addition to the terrible feeling in my stomach.

I forgave my father for what he did, but only insofar as the damage it caused me. I can’t forgive him for the hurt he caused Mom. That’s her apology to accept.

Then, I moved on.

Except, I’m looking at Coen right now, wondering how much damage this careful, careful man is capable of, given the chance.