Chapter 3 #2
Instead, I say, “Because I said so.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I know it’s the wrong answer.
Laurel’s expression cools instantly. “Right. Of course.”
Wilder mutters, “Oh, that was definitely the wrong thing to say.”
I ignore him. “You wanted executive oversight. Now you have it.”
“What I wanted was approval.” She takes a step closer to my desk. “Not a babysitter.”
“You think I’m babysitting you?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
The word comes out sharp enough that both of them go still.
Laurel studies me for a second too long, like she’s trying to figure something out beneath the surface. That’s dangerous too. Because if she keeps looking at me like that, she’s eventually going to see exactly how fucked this situation really is.
“You don’t trust me,” she says finally.
“That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?”
The room goes quiet.
Wilder slowly stands from his chair. Smart man. He clearly senses the conversation heading somewhere it shouldn’t.
“I’m gonna…” He points vaguely toward the door. “Leave before HR materializes out of thin air.”
Neither of us looks at him. A second later, the office door clicks shut behind him. Now we’re alone again. And somehow that feels worse than before.
Laurel exhales softly through her nose. “Mr. Sinclair—”
“Stop calling me that when we’re alone.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Her lips part slightly. “What?”
“You call all my brothers by their names.” I lean back in my chair slowly. “But not me.”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“So are they.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
She hesitates. And for one dangerous second, I think she might actually answer honestly.
But then her gaze flickers downward. To my left hand.
To the wedding ring still sitting there like a goddamn warning label.
I watch the exact second she pulls herself back emotionally again.
Her shoulders straighten. Her expression smooths into professionalism.
“I should get back to work,” she says quietly.
The rejection shouldn’t bother me. Instead, it feels like someone just slammed a door directly in my face.
“Laurel.”
She pauses near the door but doesn’t turn around.
“You’re still going to Napa with me.”
A beat of silence.
Then, without looking back, she says, “Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”
And somehow hearing the formality in her voice now feels a hell of a lot worse than it did before.
The drive home takes twice as long as normal, and by the time I pull into the circular driveway, I’m already irritated.
Well. More irritated than I’ve been all goddamn day.
Traffic was bad, but not bad enough to explain why I spent most of the drive replaying every second of my conversation with Laurel.
The way her face softened for one dangerous second before she saw my wedding ring.
The way she said Yes, Mr. Sinclair like she was building a wall brick by brick between us.
The way I immediately hated it. After Laurel left my office, I didn’t get much done. Fucking pathetic.
I shut off the SUV and sit there for a second, staring at the massive house in front of me. Warm lights glow through the windows. Perfect landscaping. Expensive architecture. Everything polished and pristine enough to belong in a magazine spread about successful power couples.
Meanwhile, my marriage feels like a ghost haunting the place.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call out as I step inside, dropping my keys into the ceramic bowl near the front door.
My voice echoes through the entryway. There’s no answer, which isn’t surprising.
With Jenna, it’s hit or miss these days.
Sometimes I come home to dinner waiting on the stove and music playing softly through the house like we’re still the couple we used to be.
Sometimes she greets me with a smile that almost feels real.
Other times, she’s in her bedroom. Yes. Her bedroom.
We stopped sharing a bed nearly five years ago, long before Laurel Cross ever walked into my life and complicated the hell out of it.
At first, it happened gradually. Jenna said I worked too late.
That I snored. That she slept better alone.
Then one night became two. Two became permanent.
And eventually neither of us talked about it anymore.
The worst nights, though, are when I come home and find her angry. Restless. Looking at me like I personally ruined her life just by existing in it. I fear tonight will be one of those nights.
I loosen my tie as I walk deeper into the house. “Jenna?”
Still nothing.
The kitchen lights are on, but there’s no food out.
No sound except the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ice clinking in a glass somewhere nearby.
I find her in the sitting room overlooking the backyard.
She’s curled elegantly into the corner of the couch with a crystal tumbler in one hand and her laptop open beside her.
Her dark hair falls over one shoulder, and she’s still wearing the cream dress from earlier.
Beautiful as ever. Untouchable as ever too.
“You’re late,” she says without looking up. “You’re usually home by six-thirty.”
“I got held up at work.”
That finally makes her eyes lift to mine.
“With Ms. Cross?”
My expression hardens automatically. “Excuse me?”
Jenna takes a slow sip of her drink. “Relax. I’m not accusing you of anything.”.
I loosen my tie further and move toward the bar cart.
“Then why bring her up?”
“Because I saw the way you looked at her today.”
Silence crashes through the room instantly and my hand tightens around the whiskey bottle.
Jenna studies me over the rim of her glass. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”
“I don’t know what you think you saw.”
“Yes, you do.”
Her voice stays quiet. Controlled. That’s always been Jenna’s way. She doesn’t scream when she’s hurt. She slices instead. Slow and precise. I pour myself a drink and throw it back harder than necessary.
“Nothing happened,” I say flatly.
Jenna gives a faint, humorless smile.
“I know.” She closes her laptop gently. “Laurel Cross doesn’t seem like the type of woman who’d knowingly sleep with a married man.”
The certainty in her tone catches me off guard and guilt twists in my gut so hard it almost pisses me off. Because she’s right. That’s exactly why Laurel pulled away.
Jenna watches my face carefully, and suddenly I realize something ugly. She’s not angry.
She’s resigned.
Like some part of her has been expecting this for a while now.
“That’s not what this is,” I say, though the words sound weak even to me.
“No?” She tilts her head slightly. “Then what is it?”
“A project that’s going to put us on the map.” I force a smile. “Just wait and see.”
Jenna watches me for a long moment over the rim of her glass.
Then she says quietly, “You know, I wouldn’t be mad if you slept with her.”
The words hit like a slap across the face and my irritation spikes instantly.
“Why the hell would you say something like that?”
She sighs softly and sets her drink down on the coffee table. “Because we both know what happened today.”