Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Juliette
I stared at the screen, cursor blinking like it was daring me to take it back.
But I didn’t. I hit send.
My resignation from the University of Miami will be effective two weeks from today. No dramatic declarations, no soapbox statements—just a clean, professional goodbye wrapped in three polite paragraphs and a signature that, for once, felt like my own.
The moment it was gone, I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. Not a sigh. Not regret. Just… release. A pressure I hadn’t even realized was pressing on my chest slipped off like an old coat.
I was done playing professor. No more pretending to be fulfilled while grading recycled thoughts about Baroque lighting and Van Gogh’s brushstroke angst.
I wanted real things. Real rooms. Real art.
And maybe… a real life.
I picked up my phone and tapped out a message before I could overthink it.
Juliette: Dinner at nine tonight. Bring wine. I’ll bring the charm. And if Gabrielle and Anthony go to bed early enough, I might even go for a midnight swim. No suit required.
The three dots appeared almost instantly.
Damian: Be there. I’ll behave. Until the pool.
I smirked. Someone was waiting for an excuse.
I stood, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and started putting together a grocery order—salmon, lemons, arborio rice, chocolate, and a few other things that felt indulgent but low-effort. Cooking relaxed me. And if I was feeding Damian Sinclair, I wasn’t phoning it in.
Once the order was submitted, I pulled my laptop back out—this time to open a different tab.
Miami Fertility Clinic. I clicked through the options, filled in the form, and pressed call before I could lose my nerve.
After two rings, a cheerful voice picked up, and I asked for a consultation.
She walked me through the intake and asked a few clinical questions.
Then, “If you’re currently on birth control, you’ll need to stop before we can run a full panel of diagnostics.
You’ll want to do that at least a few days ahead of your appointment. ”
I made an appointment, thanked her, and hung up, then wandered back into my bedroom.
The drawer slid open easily. My pill pack sat right on top—almost empty—only one left. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, the plastic cool against my fingertips. No symbolism. No dramatics. Just one tiny, familiar decision waiting for me to make the next.
Not yet.
Damian showed up like he always did, looking like a magazine ad for a sexy off-limits billionaire.
Faded jeans that probably cost more than my car’s insurance, a crisp white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and the kind of cologne that made me want to lean in for reasons that had nothing to do with politeness.
He held up a bottle of red like a peace offering. “Cabernet. From Napa. Nothing too flashy.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I said, taking it from him and handing him the corkscrew. “You brought it, you open it. House rules.”
He smirked, already working the foil. “Noted.”
The salmon was already in the oven, and the risotto just needed tending. He followed me into the kitchen with two glasses and leaned against the counter while I stirred. It wasn’t domestic—not really—but it felt warm. Easy. Like we’d done this before.
We hadn’t.
“What’s the deal with the appraisal business?” he asked after a few bites of salad. “You serious?”
“Serious enough to turn in my resignation and order a stack of blank invoices.” I sipped. “I’ve got my credentials and know what I’m looking at. It’s just a matter of getting clients.”
“You want some leads?”
I arched a brow. “Are they good leads or pity leads?”
“Real leads,” he said. “A Coral Gables estate—old money, just lost their patriarch. They’re trying to catalog what’s real and what’s inherited nonsense.”
“And the second one?”
“A guy in Brickell. Mid-thirties, tech money, fully paranoid. Thinks every gallery’s trying to scam him. He needs appraisals before he’ll insure anything.”
I made a face. “So a headache.”
“Possibly,” he said. “But a well-paying one.”
I nodded slowly. “I’ll start with the estate. But I’ll take Brickell if I need a tax write-off for wine and therapy.”
He laughed, deep and honest, then poured more wine. “You’ll need an assistant if this scales,” he added. “And I’ll need one for the Germany trip. I’ve got forms, manifests, insurance documents—and Louisa’s out already.”
I stirred the risotto without answering right away.
That wasn’t flirtation. That was trust, and the part that surprised me? I wanted to say yes, not just because I could help, but because I wanted to be in the room. At the table. Doing the work.
I slid a glance toward him. “You sure you can afford my rates?”
Damian grinned. “Depends. Do they include midnight swims?”
I bumped his hip with mine and checked the timer. Ten more minutes.
Plenty of time to finish dinner.
And decide whether or not to keep pretending this wasn’t changing everything.
After we cleared the dishes—him drying, me washing, both of us pretending we hadn’t just discussed something other than fun and adventure—I made a quiet trip across the lawn to the main house.
The porch lights were off. Gabrielle and Anthony’s bedroom window glowed faintly for a second, then blinked out.
Showtime.
I walked back barefoot, the grass cool between my toes, air thick with the scent of citrus and chlorine. The night was warm, still, slow in that way only Coconut Grove managed to be after midnight. I slid open the guesthouse door?—
And stopped.
Damian was already outside, barefoot and shirtless, standing at the edge of the pool like a damn Greek statue someone had tossed into 2025 and given a smug streak. His boxer-briefs were on the patio tile behind him—forgotten. Or maybe just discarded with intention.
The Sinclair smirk was locked and loaded. “Took you long enough.”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You always get naked unsupervised, or is this a special occasion?”
“I figured I’d get a head start. You're the one who promised a show.”
My eyes dragged over him deliberately—his chest, his stomach, the low-slung line of his hips that always made me feel like I was standing too close to the edge of something dangerous. He wasn’t posing. He didn’t need to. The man had been born with swagger.
I stepped out into the moonlight and began unbuttoning my dress, slow and silent, enjoying the way his mouth parted slightly as it slipped off my shoulders and pooled at my feet.
“Should I have packed a swimsuit?” he asked, voice just a little rougher.
“Swimsuits are discouraged,” I said, unclipping my bra with a shrug. “Skinny dipping is on the menu tonight, remember?”
His eyes tracked every movement, but he didn’t reach for me. Not yet.
We slid into the water from opposite ends, letting the silence build. The pool glowed pale blue beneath us, light catching the ripples like stars that hadn’t decided where to land.
I swam toward him, arms slow, steady.
He met me halfway, hands finding my waist under the surface as I curled my legs around his hips. My arms went around his neck, skin to skin, mouth to mouth.
The kiss wasn’t frantic. It was full.
Measured.
Anchored in something we hadn’t named yet, but both felt tugging under the surface.
His hands slid lower, palms gliding over the curve of my hips beneath the surface, fingers slipping just far enough to make my breath catch.
Mine tangled in his hair, wet and slick between my fingers, and I tugged just hard enough to earn that low sound from his throat—the one that always made my stomach tighten.
The water shifted around us, sloshing gently against the tile as I moved against him, slow and deliberate. My legs tightened around his waist, and I felt him hard and ready beneath me, no barriers, no hesitation. Just heat and need, barely restrained.
His mouth found my neck, his tongue tracing the edge of my jaw like he wanted to memorize it, and then he sucked on my earlobe in a way that made me pulse between my thighs.
I pressed closer, letting my body grind against his, teasing us both.
His hands squeezed my ass, pulling me tighter as he bit down gently on my shoulder, and I arched against him, letting the friction build.
And for once, it wasn’t just lust. It was easy. It was electric, and it was real.
We dried off in silence, passing a towel between us like we were trying not to break whatever had settled over us in the water—something quieter than heat but just as charged.
Damian followed me inside without a word, barefoot and shirtless, his jeans riding low on his hips, hair still damp, a half-smile curving like he already knew what I was about to say.
But I didn’t say anything right away.
I stood in the doorway of my bedroom, leaning against the frame, watching him cross the room and drop his phone and wallet onto the dresser like this was routine. Like he’d done it before. Like we’d done this before.
We hadn’t.
Not like this.
I crossed my arms, casual but firm, and let my eyes trail over him. His skin still held the warmth of the night, and he smelled like salt and wine and that damn cologne that always made me feel reckless.
“You’re staying,” I said.
Not a question.
Damian raised one brow, just a flicker of surprise before that smug little smile reappeared. “Is that so?”
I nodded. “No shoes, no keys, no excuses.”
He walked toward me, slow and deliberate. “You sure?”
I stepped back into the room, giving him space to follow. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”
We showered and fell into bed without urgency. No tugging or tearing, no grabbing like we were starving. It wasn’t about needing anymore—it was about choosing.
I straddled him slowly, skin against skin, easing down until we both exhaled. He let me set the rhythm, hands resting on my thighs, letting me take what I wanted. The way he looked at me—steady, focused—made it feel like more than lust.
We moved together, quietly, like we were trying not to wake something too fragile to name.
No words. Just tension and release.
When it was over, I lay beside him with my leg thrown over his hip, his breathing still heavy against my neck. He felt solid. Settled. It’s something I could’ve sunk into if I had let myself.
But I didn’t sleep.
Not yet.
I slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake him, and padded into the bathroom. The tile was cool under my feet, and the air smelled like steam, skin, and something distinctly male.
I opened the drawer. The pill pack sat right where I’d left it that morning.
One left.
I stared at it for a second, running my thumb along the edge of the foil. It should’ve felt like a bigger moment. Some grand internal declaration. A symbolic shift.
But all I felt was... clarity. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t even hesitant.
I was just ready.
Ready to choose for myself—for once, not because of timing or expectations or some neat little box I was supposed to fit into. Not because of a man. Not even Damian. This was mine.
I popped the last pill free, washed it down with a sip of water from the glass on the counter, and tossed the empty pack into the trash can like it didn’t deserve a ceremony.
I looked up and caught my own eyes in the mirror.
Steady. A little flushed. A little wild.
Tomorrow, it’s real.
And I wasn’t afraid of it.