Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
T hree days after the Blackwell estate incident, I'm showing a penthouse downtown when my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown Number: Your legs look amazing in that dress, kitten.
I freeze in the middle of explaining the smart home system to my client, a tech entrepreneur who's barely looked up from his own phone since we arrived. I glance around the empty penthouse, half-expecting to see Jeremy lurking in a corner.
"Everything okay?" my client asks, finally noticing I've stopped mid-sentence.
"Fine," I say, pasting on my professional smile. "Just a work message."
As soon as he returns his attention to the kitchen's touchless faucets, I type back:
Who is this?
The response is immediate:
You know exactly who this is.
I do. Of course I do. But damned if I'll give him the satisfaction.
Me: You’ve got the wrong number.
I shoot off my message, then tuck my phone away, ignoring the immediate buzz of his reply.
I finish the showing on autopilot, somehow managing to extol the virtues of smart refrigerators and voice-activated lights, while my mind races with questions.
How did he get my number? How does he know what I'm wearing?
As my client heads to the elevator, I glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows and see him.
Jeremy is sitting in the coffee shop across the street, looking directly up at the penthouse. Even from this distance, I can see that infuriating half-smile. I don’t think he’s stalking me, he’s not the type. I wonder at the coincidence. Of all the coffee shops in town, how did he end up at the one across from the high end penthouse I’m showing?
He raises his coffee cup in a mock toast when he sees me noticing him.
The absolute nerve.
I whip out my phone and type:
Are you STALKING me now?
Jeremy: Just enjoying the view, kitten. Nice building. Your client doesn't deserve it though—he didn't look at you once the entire showing.
A chill runs down my spine. He's been watching me. For how long?
Me: This is inappropriate and unprofessional.
I ignore the flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with indignation. After all this time, he can still make my heart race. Remember how he treated you. Remember how you felt when he left. He doesn’t deserve a second chance. My mind is logical. My heart, and my clit, beat to an entirely different drum. I’m too old to be thinking this way. I can bring myself to an orgasm faster than any man can. Stop it. Stop thinking about how much Jeremy turns you on.
Jeremy: When can I see you?
Me: You can't.
Jeremy: I'll be at Martino's tonight at 8. Join me.
It's not a question. It's a statement. A confident, commanding, presumptuous as hell, statement…
Me: No.
No is a complete sentence. He doesn’t need, no screw that, doesn’t deserve more of an explanation from me.
Jeremy: Yes, you will. Because you're dying to know why I'm back. Why I'm here. Why I'm reaching out to you after all this time.
Damn him for being right. I am incredibly curious. Not only about why he’s here, but also, why he left in the first place.
Me: Maybe I don't care.
Jeremy: Then why are you still texting me?
I put my phone away without responding, seething. I gather my things and head for the elevator, determined not to look out the window again.
I fail, of course. Jeremy's still there, still watching. He stands as I appear, buttoning his suit jacket in a fluid motion that draws attention to shoulders that have, somehow gotten broader with age. How is that fair? I have to suffer through Pilates three times a week just to maintain my current weight, while he seems to have only improved with time. I’ve never met a more infuriating human being in my life.
I turn away and jab the elevator button, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. But as the doors close, I can't help but wonder if I'll end up at Martino's tonight after all.
* * *
I don't go to Martino's.
I'm not that weak.
Instead, I meet up with a client at Bella's, the Italian place two blocks away from Martino's. Pure coincidence, obviously. The client picked the restaurant. I’m getting a bit annoyed with the coincidences occurring today, but what can I do?
"The lakefront property has potential, but the asking price is steep considering the renovations you'd need to make," I tell Mrs. Heywood, a widow looking to downsize from her mansion now that her kids are grown.
She nods, picking at her pasta. "I was thinking the same thing. What about that Tudor in Oakwood?"
I'm about to answer when a familiar voice cuts through the restaurant's ambient noise.
"Gina Long. What a surprise."
Jeremy stands at our table, looking like he just stepped out of a luxury menswear catalog. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. He smells like cedar and something darker, more complex.
My heart does a traitorous little flip in my chest.
"Mr. Ford," I say, my voice admirably steady. "I'm with a client at the moment."
"Of course you are," he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You were always so... dedicated."
The way he says "dedicated" makes it sound like something else entirely.
Mrs. Heywood looks between us, her eyes bright with interest. "Don't let me interrupt," she says. "I need to powder my nose anyway."
Before I can protest, she's gathering her purse and heading toward the back of the restaurant, abandoning me to Jeremy's mercy.
"You're not at Martino's," he says, sliding into Mrs. Heywood's vacated seat without waiting for an invitation.
"I had a prior commitment."
"Two blocks away. What are the odds?" His smile says he doesn't believe in coincidences any more than I do. "Avoiding me isn't going to work, Gina. This town isn’t big enough to escape in."
I take a deliberate sip of my wine. "I'm not avoiding you. I'm living my life, which has been going perfectly fine without you in it for thirty years."
"And yet here we are."
"Here you are,” I correct, “Uninvited and unwelcome."
He leans forward, those blue eyes pinning me in place. "Are you happy, kitten?"
The question catches me off guard. "Excuse me?"
"It's a simple question. Are you happy?"
"I'm very successful," I say automatically.
His mouth quirks up at one corner. "That's not what I asked. Success is not a synonym for happiness."
"My happiness is none of your business."
"It used to be." His voice softens. "It used to be the only thing that mattered to me."
Something twists in my chest. A memory, or maybe a warning. "It didn’t matter to you too much. You walked away without ever looking back. Besides, that was a long time ago."
"Not so long." He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing against mine for the briefest moment. "I had to leave, Gina. I didn't have a choice."
"Everyone has choices. You choose to leave, and without a word to me."
"Not always." There's something in his eyes, a shadow, a history I don't know. "Sometimes there are forces bigger at play. We have to do things that we don’t want. To keep everyone safe."
Before I can ask what the hell that means, Mrs. Heywood returns, her timing impeccable.
"I should be going," Jeremy says, standing. He nods respectfully to Mrs. Heywood. "Enjoy your evening, ladies."
As he turns to leave, he leans down, his breath warm against my ear as he murmurs, "This isn't over, kitten. Not by a long shot."
I watch him walk away, something electric thrumming through my veins that feels dangerously like anticipation. Jeremy has come knocking at my door, and I plan on keeping it bolted shut. I will not give him another opportunity to break my heart.