Chapter 1
Chapter one
Fifteen Years Later
When we’re both in town, Monday nights are ours.
Not officially. Nothing’s set in actual stone.
Still, for the past decade or so, whenever our schedule’s permit, Zach and I meet at the Metropolitan Grill for dinner. We’ve been doing it so long, the staff know us well enough to seat me in our favorite booth without asking.
I get there first. I always do.
Control is a small thing, but it’s mine and I prefer to sit with back against the wall and a view of the door.
I smooth my napkin over my lap, check the time and pretend I’m not waiting.
Tonight’s topic of conversation, undoubtedly, is our friends’ wedding. The invitation is beautiful. Heavy paper. Embossed crest. A castle outside of Prague because of course Marisol would choose it for her Disney princess wedding. For fuck’s sake, she’s marrying Julian in a place with five turrets.
From my vantage point, I observe the door open.
Zach steps in. Navy jacket. No tie. A watch I once googled out of curiosity and immediately regretted when I found out it cost more than eighty grand. He pauses just long enough to clock the layout before his eyes find me.
He saunters over, unhurried.
“You’re late.” I lift my wine.
He eases into the booth across from me. “I’m semi on time.”
“What a creative definition of punctuality.” I swirl the liquid in my glass.
He adjusts his cuffs. “You’ve been auditing my time management skills since law school.”
“I’m a born litigator.” I set my wine down. “Details matter.”
He glances at the bourbon in front of him, then at me. “You ordered.”
“You’re welcome.” I’m not even a little bit ashamed at taking credit for the foresight of the overattentive restaurant staff.
His knee brushes mine when he stretches his legs out. He doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
“So.” He rolls the glass between his palms. “Who did you dismantle today?”
I recline. “Tech founder. Divorcing my client. He built a communication platform. Now they won’t speak without counsel present.”
“Poetic.”
“She wants to depose his meditation instructor.” I hide my grin with my hand.
He huffs a laugh. “Let me guess…”
“You’d be right.”
We slip into our rhythm. Our ritual. Work is always first, it keeps the ground steady.
“I had lunch with a first-year today.” I break a piece of bread in half. “He called me ma’am.”
Zach’s mouth curves. “You’ve been there fifteen years. You’re allowed to terrify associates.”
“I don’t terrify them.” My mouth drops open.
“You do.” He grins. “Under the guise of mentorship.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “It’s not my fault they think I was born a partner.”
“You’ve been one for five years.” He slices off a chunk of steak. “No small feat.”
There’s no teasing in his voice now.
I glance up. “Yeah, dog years.”
“Earned.” He eases back, fingers resting loosely around his glass. “I watched you suffer through year three when everyone else started lateraling out. I also remember year seven when things were so competitive you almost walked.”
I freeze for half a second. “I wasn’t serious.”
“You were.” He flicks his eyes to mine. “You called me from outside the building and said you were done with firm politics.”
I look down at the tablecloth, tracing the weave with my fingertip. “I was exhausted. Billable hours are no joke.”
“My recollection was your fury at the misogyny,” he corrects, watching me steadily. “There’s a difference.”
I swallow.
He furrows his brow. “You stayed. Built your book. Gained credibility and won over the men who underestimated you. When the equity vote came up, no one was surprised when you made partner on your first try.”
“Well,” I let out a breath, “I sure was. Flabbergasted.”
“You shouldn’t have been.” He shakes his head.
The earnestness in his voice stirs something in my chest. “You make it sound simple.”
“It wasn’t.” His thumb moves absently along the rim of his glass. “You’re not the kind of person who quits things you decide to win.”
The restaurant noise fades at the edges. “I don’t like to toot my own horn.”
“I know.” There’s no performance in him now. No banter.
“Besides, you were in London that year.” I try to lighten the mood. “You didn’t exactly witness my day-to-day.”
He inclines forward a touch, forearms resting on the table. “No, but we talked all the time and were on the phone when you found out. You read me the email as if you didn’t believe it. Then you went quiet.”
I remember it clearly. Sitting in my car in the garage. The fluorescent lights buzzing. My name on the memo.
“You didn’t have much to say.”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
His jaw flexes before he answers. “I was so proud of you.”
The words land without flourish./
“I still am,” he adds, holding my gaze.
Something constricts low in my throat.
Fifteen years. Hundreds of Monday dinners. Promotions. Losses. Parents divorcing. Multi-billion-dollar deals. Clients suing. Cities transitioning.
Through all of it, he’s been there. Not loudly. Not possessively. Just there.
“You’re insufferable,” I say without heat, because it’s quite the opposite.
He lifts his glass. “No, I’m consistent.”
In this moment, I realize he might be the only person who has consistently witnessed every adult version of me.
The wide-eyed law student. The ambitious junior associate.
The exhausted grind of day-to-day practice.
The woman in a parking garage learning she made partner.
Now., a nearly-forty-year old career lawyer.
I take a sip of wine to quell the lump in my throat.
He watches me over the rim of his glass. Not invasive.
Aware.
Talk moves to our parents. Mine still bitter and angry since their divorce. Convinced the other one ruined civilization. Neither one afraid to share these opinions with me at every opportunity. His are still married. Steady. The kind of happy every couple aspires to be.
“My parents taught me not to trust marriage.” I scrunch up the napkin in my lap.
He turns his glass slowly in his hand. “Mine taught me not to settle, they’re still like teenage sweethearts. It’s cute.”
I quirk an eyebrow. He shrugs.
Dessert arrives. He picks up his fork. “Change of subject. Have you booked Prague?”
It isn’t actually a question.
“Not yet.” I scoop a bite of cheesecake. “I did look at flights, though.”
“Don’t.”
I glance up. “Excuse me?”
“My jet is a better way to go.” He proclaims. “You should fly over with me.”
I set my fork down. Fold my hands loosely in front of me. Fix him with my most pointed gaze. “I’m perfectly fine flying commercial.”
“You won’t, though.”
I tilt my head. “You’re eerily confident.”
“I’m being practical.” He meets my eyes, doesn’t blink. “Besides, why wouldn’t you want to hang out with me instead?”
There it is.
“You enjoy pushing me.” I rest my chin on my palm.
He drums his fingers annoyingly. “I enjoy watching you pretend you don’t appreciate nice gestures.”
“I don’t care for spectacle.”
“It’s transportation.”
“It’s your transportation.”
His mouth curves.
The memory hits without warning.
The last night of law school. My apartment half-packed to move back to Seattle. Me lying naked on my mattress, which was still on the floor because the bed frame was dismantled.
I swallow.
Wearing only his boxer shorts, Zach stands at the foot of the mattress drinking me in. Pupils darker than I’d ever seen them.
“You’re drifting.” He waves his hand in front of my face.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“Prague.”
“Liar.” He adjusts and stretches his arm along the top of the booth. Relaxed. Too relaxed. “Say yes to the jet.”
I draw back. Cross my legs. “Don’t pressure me.”
“You’re insane. Since when is a private jet ride pressure?” He chuckles.
His shoe lightly taps mine. Not accidental.
He kneels down between my legs slowly. Methodically, his hands travel up my thighs, parting them without hesitation.
Heat coils low in my stomach. I reach for my wine to steady my hands and focus on our conversation.
“Marisol’s going to make it a production.” I roll my eyes. “I’m imagining a horse-drawn carriage. String quartet. Twelve-course dinner.”
“You’ll love every second of it and pretend otherwise.” The skin around his eyes crinkles when he smiles.
I scrunch my nose. “I won’t.”
He arches a brow.
His mouth traces the inside of my thigh. Unhurried. Patient. Intentional. As though he has nothing else planned for the rest of his life except this.
My pulse jumps.
“So, tell the truth. Are you hesitating because it’s a private jet,” he narrows his eyes, “or are you afraid of being alone with me?”
I scowl at him. He doesn’t look away.
“You’re so arrogant.”
“Noooo. Observant.” He holds eye contact.
Silence settles between us. Not awkward.
Charged.
We’ve never talked about our night of debauchery. Not once in fifteen years. Nothing.
There’s been no mention of how he held my hips in place when my body tried to curl away from the intensity of what he did to me. How he made me go over again and again and again until I didn’t know up from down.
My fingers close around the stem of my glass.
He notices. “Skylar…”
I blink. “Yeah?”
“Where’d you go?” he asks as if he doesn’t know.
I play along. “Nowhere.”
He studies me for a second longer than he should.
“Fine. I’ll fly with you to Prague,” I say finally.
His jaw clenches slightly. Then he smirks.
I squeeze my eyes shut at the memory of how I arched off the mattress when he devoured my pussy like I was an ice cream sundae. Every detail is infused in my soul. My hands fisting his hair. Voice gravely from crying out his name every time he made me come.
The server clears away the cheesecake we barely touched and sets the bill down.
“We’ll be there for five days, unless you want to add a couple extra for sightseeing after the wedding.” He reaches for the check before I can.
Wait, what?
I pout to distract him from my reaction. “You always pay.”
He glances up. “Yes. I always will.”
“You’re so irritating.”
“I’m aware.” He signs the bill without looking at the total.
He devours me for hours until sunlight peeps through the curtains. Sometimes smiling up at me from between my legs, lips glistening with my release. I wonder if my unraveling was something he’d planned throughout law school and finally accomplished.
I scoot out of the booth. Zach stands and steps behind me and lifts my coat from the hook. His fingers brush the back of my neck as he places it onto my shoulders.
It’s barely a touch but it burns.
Outside, the air is cool. The city buzzes around us. He walks me to my car parked up the street, even though it’s unnecessary.
“How come you’ve never asked?” His hands are in his pockets now, watching me.
“Asked what?” I feign ignorance.
“How I felt about our night. The one after graduation.”
The world narrows.
“I dunno. Because it’s in the past. One and done. You didn’t seem to want a repeat.”
A beat.
As we approach my Mercedes, traffic moves behind him. Someone laughs from one of the balconies in the building above the street. I hold his gaze.
He stares at me, smoldering.
Zach rises from the edge of the mattress, cock in hand. Strokes himself with long pulls, forehead etched with restraint. He comes in arched spurts all over my nipples, the visual of which is permanently etched in my memory.
Zach opens my car door. Immediately, I slip inside. He closes it gently, palm lingering on the glass for half a second.
As I pull away, the ghost of his hands on my hips gives me a little thrill. I also realize he never answered me.
What’s his end game? Why bring it up now?
I guess I’ll find out in a few months when I’ll be thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic with him. Then, five days in Prague with our best friends in a fucking castle.
This man’s secretly held my heart in the palm of his hand.
It’s been fifteen long years of pretending it doesn’t matter.
I’m not sure I want to pretend anymore.