Chapter 23
Tabitha shivered as she slipped out of bed, her bare feet brushing against the cool wooden floor. Her body still hummed with aftershocks, muscles aching in places she hadn’t even known existed. And yes—she was definitely walking with a bit of caution.
But she was late.
Ramzi had kept her up nearly all night, showing her—over and over—just how many ways he could make her body sing.
He’d taken her from behind, his hand stroking her while he pinned her palms to the wall.
Later, he’d rolled onto his back and watched, ravenous and intent, as she rode him, his hands guiding hers to her throbbing center, whispering filthy encouragements as she shattered.
They’d made love in the shower, against the wall, the water barely hotter than his mouth on her skin.
If they’d had more time—or strength—he probably would’ve taken her in that antique velvet chair too.
Grinning like a madwoman, she stepped into the shower, rinsing away the scent of his cologne and their tangled, delicious night. Afterward, she toweled off and tiptoed out to find her clothes.
“I’m awake,” came his gravelly voice from the bed.
Tabitha jumped, her towel slipping slightly as she turned to see him lift his head, sleepy but alert. His eyes sharpened the moment he registered her intent.
“You’re getting dressed,” he said darkly, like she’d committed a crime.
“I have to,” she replied with a half-smile, pulling her bra on. His stare made her hyper-aware of every move—adjusting the lace, fastening the clasp, sliding on her jeans without looking at him.
“What time is the wedding?” he asked, voice husky as he raked a hand through his hair.
“Ten. Stacy and John want to hit the road early—they’re driving cross-country for their honeymoon.”
“Ten in the morning?” he grumbled, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “What sort of wedding starts at ten a.m.?”
She slipped on her flats, desperate to escape before he convinced her to stay and be late. Again.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said, scanning the floor for his pants.
“No need!” she blurted, a little too fast. His nakedness was a dangerous distraction, and her self-control was already fraying. “It’s just a few blocks. I’m fine.”
“Tabitha—”
“No, seriously!” she called out, grabbing her phone and keys. Her voice had a pitch of panic she didn’t intend, but he was too irresistible like this—rumpled, golden-skinned, and entirely too tempting.
She yanked open the door and winced. It was rude to fling it wide when the man behind her was stark naked, but she didn’t stop to explain. Thankfully, only his guards were in the hallway, though their expressions said it all—surprise, amusement, and… recognition.
She was definitely doing the walk of shame.
“Sorry!” she whispered, cheeks flaming as she darted past them, head ducked like a kid sneaking out after curfew.
She nearly collided with Ms. Weatherby, who rounded the corner carrying a tray of fresh pastries. The older woman froze mid-step, mouth dropping open in slow-motion horror.
“Tabitha Jones! What on earth do you think you’re doing, coming down from the guest bedrooms?”
Under any other circumstances, Tabitha might have laughed. It was none of the woman’s business what went on behind closed doors.
Except…it kind of was. Tabitha’s family was a cornerstone of the church. And while she hadn’t been inside the sanctuary in five years—not since she and Martin met with the pastor to plan a wedding that never happened—Ms. Weatherby wasn’t likely to care about technicalities.
“Gotta run, Ms. Weatherby!” Tabitha chirped, blowing past her before the sermon could begin.
She had better things to do with her time than explain her presence to the woman.
Like somehow get over the man she’d fallen madly in love with.
Blinking hard, Tabitha hurried down the steps, praying she could make it to her bedroom before her mother caught sight of the tears brimming in her eyes.
She barely made it through the front door before Tilda’s voice floated from the kitchen, sharp and judgmental—probably ready to launch into a rant about how good girls didn’t sleep over at inns with foreign men.
Tabitha didn’t want to hear it.
Last night had been… special.
It hadn’t been reckless. Or shameful. Or wrong. Everything they’d done—every kiss, every whispered plea, every tangled, breathless moment—had been a reflection of what she felt for Ramzi.
And maybe that was the reason her chest ached so violently now.
In the sanctuary of her bedroom, she closed the door behind her, bracing her back against it. Her eyes dropped to the glittering diamond ring still on her finger.
Beautiful. Meaningless.
Because that ring didn’t symbolize something she had. It symbolized something she could never truly keep.
Not with Ramzi.
Today was Stacy’s wedding. Tomorrow, the post-wedding brunch. And then?
She and Ramzi would return to Philadelphia.
Back to the quiet, professional rhythm of their lives.
Monday morning, he might perch on the edge of her desk, asking casually about her weekend like nothing had happened.
Maybe he’d smile. Maybe he’d tease her about some project or toss out a philosophical question that would keep her talking too long over takeout.
But he would never hold her again.
He’d never kiss her like he was starving. Never touch her like he couldn’t breathe without her.
He would never make love to her again like she mattered more than air.
Her fingers dug into her scalp as she pressed her hands over her face.
“What have I done?” she whispered.
Then she sank—slowly, painfully—to the floor, curling into herself as the tears spilled freely. Silent, shaking sobs that wouldn’t stop.
It took her twenty minutes to pull herself together.
When she finally stood, her cheeks were blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed and raw. But she was determined. She could do this. She could paste on a smile and fake her way through the next twelve hours.
A warm curling iron, a lot of makeup, and sheer willpower turned her into something that resembled composed.
She slipped into the silk dress she’d picked for the wedding—soft rose-colored fabric that hugged her figure without screaming for attention. Then she opened her clutch and glanced at her phone.
Three messages from Stacy.
Where are you? Don’t be late! I’m gonna cry without you.
Tabitha managed a wobbly smile.
She could cry later. Right now, her best friend needed her.
Tucking her phone inside the velvet clutch, she glanced in the mirror. Her hair was curled, her lipstick flawless. Her dress elegant. Her heels appropriate.
She looked like the perfect wedding guest.
Not like a woman who had just watched her heart walk away.