Chapter 21 – Cain
To no one’s surprise, the moment that I step back into my law office after grabbing the paperwork from my apartment, I’m swarmed.
There are paralegals camped outside my door with red pens and questions. Interns pacing the hallway like they’re waiting for me to give them permission to breathe or go home. Partners wanting updates on cases that haven’t even hit my desk yet.
Everyone here is acting like they don't know how to function without me which is normally something I'd love to see but right now, all I want to do is sit in my chair, close the door, and replay every damn second of my time with Rhiannon.
It’s past infatuation now. Way past. It’s an obsession.
A slow, consuming ache that’s settled under my skin like a disease and refuses to let go.
There’s no medicine to cure it and no antidote to reverse it.
I’m screwed unless I’m around her. My dick is still half-way hard in my pants because nothing takes the edge off this desire I feel except being with her.
My thumb hovers over my phone, the half-written text to her best friend, Leo, taunting me. I’ve typed and deleted it at least a hundred times in the past hour.
Hey, man, I was wondering if—Delete.
Any chance you’d give me Rhiannon’s phone number?—Delete.
Can you tell me where you're going tonight?—Delete.
Every version sounds pathetic.
Because I’m a fucking fool for her now. And this isn’t about getting her out of my system. I don’t want her gone. I want her in it—rooted deep, tangled up in every part of my day.
I want to make plans with her, to have something scheduled on the calendar so that I stop searching for her in every crowd and looking for her each time I enter my penthouse. I want to be able to expect her because I know she's expecting me too.
“Son.”
The deep baritone voice that’s ruled my life for over thirty-five years cuts through my thoughts. My dad’s standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame reminding me that people may be depending on me, but my father's approval is what's most important if I want to take his company over some day.
There's no knock, no warning, because that’s not his style. He’s always enjoyed catching me off guard. Says it keeps me sharp.
I look up just as I hit send on the message to Leo, hoping I don’t regret it after this conversation.
“Hello, Dad. What’s up?”
He steps into my office, scanning the room like he’s checking for dust. He won’t find any. My admin keeps it pristine since it doubles as a meeting place for my most wealthy clients.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“No, I’ve been working.”
“Hm.” He doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push. He just takes a seat across from me, steepling his hands like some kind of courtroom interrogator. “What happened with the Bryson case?”
I run a hand through my hair. “I got the charges lowered.”
“But not dropped.”
I grit my teeth. No shit.
“We’re appealing,” I say, trying to sound confident, but even I can hear the fatigue in my voice from struggling to sleep these last few days.
He studies me. “You’ve been off lately. Anything you want to talk about that’s got you distracted?”
Sure, Dad, how about the fact that I can’t stop thinking about a woman who crawled under my skin and rewired my entire brain?
That I can still smell her perfume on my shirt and taste her on my tongue? That I’m one text away from begging her to let me see her again, and I don’t even know what I’d do if she said no?
But that’s not something my dad would understand.
He’s the kind of man who schedules emotions between conference calls.
He believes love is just another liability.
A weakness. Ever since my mom walked away, the love of his life, he’s been married to his work and considers relationships to be a waste of time and a distraction.
Maybe he’s right but I don’t care anymore.
“No,” I say, leaning back in my chair, trying to sound casual. “Just have a lot on my mind.”
He nods slowly, but his gaze lingers, heavy and knowing.
And as he launches into talks about client meetings and appeal strategies, my brain drifts again to Rhiannon.
To the way she looked at me like I wasn't the guy in this suit making strategic decisions and millions of dollars.
That instead I was something she desired more than money, prestige and connections.
For the first time in my life, I’m starting to wonder if maybe there’s more to chase than the next case. That there’s more to me than this endless grind with no end in sight and nothing to look forward to.
He stands, tapping his knuckles against the edge of my desk twice — sharp, decisive, like a gavel hitting wood. “Well, figure out a way to get whatever it is off your mind so that you’re focused on work again.”
And there it is. The man I was raised by, distilled into one perfect sentence.
Not how can I help you refocus? or what’s going on, son? Just a reminder that emotions are distractions and that vulnerability’s something you fix, not feel.
I nod, forcing a thin smile. “You got it. I’ll figure it out.”
He leaves, closing my office door behind him, and the sound of it clicking shut feels like a relief.
For a second, I just sit there, staring at the empty space he filled, the faint echo of his cologne, that heavy musk of power and money, lingering in the air, and I wonder if he’s right.
If I should just compartmentalize, bury the idea of having more with Rhiannon in a box labeled things that aren't for me, and move the hell on.
Except I can’t. Because Rhiannon’s not irrelevant. She’s in my head, stitched into every damn thought I’ve had since she humped me in Bryant Park.
My phone buzzes on the desk. A single message lights up the screen.
Leo: Brookhaven Brews is the restaurant. You don’t need to wear a costume, but Rhiannon might like it if you do.
A slow grin pulls at my mouth. I don’t even realize I’m reaching for my wallet and keys until they’re already in my hand.
I should stay at the office. I should catch up on the hours I’ve lost today.
But the thought of seeing her again, of watching her eyes go wide when she realizes that I found her this time, that I’m done letting the universe decide when our paths collide, it’s enough to override every logical part of my brain.
My phone buzzes again.
Leo: And just know I’m only betraying my best friend’s trust because I think she needs this distraction. So please, don’t prove me wrong and turn out to be a dick.
That makes me laugh. Because Leo doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would do this for just anyone. Which means, whether she knows it or not, Rhiannon’s got people in her corner who’d go to bat for her and me.
And the idea that he’s giving me a chance feels like something I know I won’t screw up.
Cain: I understand.
I stand, sliding my arms through my coat, the city lights bleeding orange and blue against my office windows.
Outside, the traffic hums. Horns, engines, the distant wail of a siren, it's the kind of noise that usually fades into background static when I’m working.
But tonight, it feels like a pulse, something alive and restless, matching the beat of my own heart.
I lock my office door and head for the elevator.
There’s work piling up on my desk, cases waiting for my attention, a father who’d be furious if he knew I was skipping out early for a woman I barely know that stole my lucky boxers after a wild, one night stand.
But I can’t shake the feeling that this is one of those moments you don’t ignore. This is the start of everything.
So, I press the button for the lobby, watching the numbers descend, staring at my reflection in the gold-plated doors. I’m smiling and it looks different. It looks good.
I might regret this in the morning. But if it means seeing Rhiannon again — hearing her laugh, catching that spark in her eyes, then yeah. I’ll take the hit.
Brookhaven, here I come. And I'm finally getting some clarity on what she wants, too.
***
Two hours later, I’ve changed out of my suit and into something more casual.
No, not a costume despite Leo’s suggestion. I don't even own a Halloween costume. But this is still the most casual I’ve ever worn around her unless you count being naked.
Dark, worn denim. A hunter-green knit long sleeve shirt that feels too soft against my skin, like I shouldn’t be allowed to wear something this comfortable while feeling this tense.
Brown leather shoes that probably cost more than half the cars in this town.
I checked my hair at least a dozen times before leaving—hell, maybe more—and the whole drive here, I’ve had that unfamiliar, restless feeling running through me.
Excitement. Nerves. Thrill.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve never been nervous about a woman before. I’ve never wanted to impress someone who could probably see right through everything I have to offer—money, charm, the kind of sex that makes most women lose their names. But the sad part is that's all I have to offer.
I don’t have much free time, I’m not always the most empathetic person, I can’t cook for shit, I can't fix cars, I don't come from a blue-collar, working-class family like hers and frankly, I don't even know what she likes but I'm willing to find out.
Because no one else has ever been her.
When I pull into Brookhaven, the whole town looks alive. The streets are lit up with orange string lights, there's kids darting across lawns in costumes that glow or sparkle under the porch lamps. Parents trail behind with drinks in hand, laughing, calling after them.
There’s an energy in the air here that NYC could never possess. It's warm, nostalgic, unfiltered joy. And it hits me harder than I expected.
Growing up in New York with just our dad and a revolving door of nannies, Rosie and I never went trick-or-treating. Never carved pumpkins. Never stood on a porch waiting for someone to drop candy into our bags.