Chapter 26
Sin
I’m in my office staring out the window when my phone dings.
Unknown number.
For one second, I almost ignore it. Then I see the message.
This is Laurel… my new number.
Everything in me stops. My hand tightens around the phone so hard I’m surprised the screen doesn’t crack. I type back.
Hey.
Three dots appear and I hold my breath like a man waiting for a verdict.
I read your letter.
My damn heart feels like it’s stuck in my throat. I stand without meaning to, then sit back down because there is nowhere to go. Nothing to fix. Nothing to demand.
Another message appears.
Are you free for dinner?
For a second, I can’t move. Then I type before she can change her mind.
I am. Want me to pick you up?
Yes.
She sends her new address. Wilder was right. It’s near his place. Secure building. Better neighborhood. Cameras. A doorman. All good things, but it doesn’t undo the fact that she had to move because of me.
I’ll be there at 6.
Okay.
I stare at the single word like it’s poetry. Then I set my phone down and drag both hands over my face. For the first time in weeks, I feel something other than dread. Not relief. Not yet.
Hope.
At five forty-five, I’m already parked outside her building because apparently I have no dignity left.
I sit in the truck with both hands on the steering wheel, staring at the entrance like she might vanish if I blink.
The city moves around me in early evening color, headlights sliding over wet pavement, people hurrying past with scarves and coffee and lives that have not recently exploded in front of the internet.
At six exactly, she steps out. My chest tightens. She’s wearing a black dress under a long coat, her hair loose around her shoulders, her mouth painted a soft red that nearly makes me forget how to breathe. She looks better than the last time I saw her. Still tired. Still guarded. But standing.
I get out before she reaches the truck. For a second, we just look at each other across the sidewalk.
Then she lifts one brow. “You’re early.”
My laugh is quiet. Rough. “No, I’m not.”
“You’ve been here at least fifteen minutes.”
“Ten.”
“Liar.”
“Twenty.”
Her mouth curves. It’s small and the sight of it nearly brings me to my knees.
I open the passenger door for her. She pauses before climbing in, looking up at me. Close enough that I can smell her perfume.
“Hi,” she says.
Such a simple word. It hits like touch.
“Hi.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth. Then back to my eyes. I feel that look everywhere. But I don’t reach for her. Not yet.
She gets into the truck, and I close the door like the smallest sound might break whatever fragile thing this is.
Dinner is at a quiet restaurant near the river. Private enough that no one looks twice at us. Public enough that this is not a secret. That matters.
I requested a corner table anyway because I’m still myself and I have no interest in strangers earning the right to watch her face.
“Corner table,” she says as we sit.
“I thought you’d prefer it.”
“I do.”
“Good.”
She studies me over the top of the menu. “You look tired.”
“So do you.”
The server comes by. We order wine neither of us touches at first and food I doubt either of us will taste. The moment we’re alone again, she folds her hands on the table.
“I read your letter.”
My throat tightens. “I know.”
“It was…” She looks down. “A lot.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her eyes lift. “Don’t apologize for the letter.”
“I have plenty else to apologize for.”
“That’s true.”
The honesty stings, but I deserve it.
“I meant every word,” I say.
“I know.”
The way she says it nearly breaks something in me. Maybe that is why she looks so afraid.
She takes a breath. “I made a decision.”
My body goes still. The entire restaurant seems to fade into silverware and low voices and the dull roar of blood in my ears.
“All right.”
“I’m taking the job at Sex Activity Pro.”
I’ve imagined this moment a hundred times since Wilder saw her at the market. In every version, I am gracious. Supportive. The kind of man who loves her enough to let her choose herself. Knowing the right thing doesn’t make it painless. My chest feels hollowed out.
“Good,” I say.
Her eyes flicker. I force myself to continue before the selfish part of me reaches across the table and begs.
“That’s good, Laurel.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” My voice is rough. I clear it. “It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“It is.”
“You earned it.”
Her mouth trembles slightly, and she looks away. I curl my hand around my water glass, so I don’t reach for her.
“You deserve a fresh start,” I say. “One that isn’t tied to my name. Or the board. Or what happened.”
“That’s part of it.”
I nod.
“And the money is ridiculous,” she adds.
Despite the ache in my chest, I almost smile. “How ridiculous?”
“Vulgar.”
“Good.”
“Deeply vulgar.”
“Even better.”
Her smile comes and goes. Then she grows serious again.
“I need to be somewhere that belongs to me,” she says quietly. “Somewhere I’m not looking over my shoulder for your office. Somewhere people don’t know which conference rooms we ruined.”
“Fair.”
“I need to know that when I walk into work, I’m there because I chose it. Not because I’m hoping to see you. Not because I’m proving I’m strong enough to stay. Not because I’m punishing myself by leaving.”
I look at her. God, I love her.
“I understand.”
“I don’t want to run from my life,” she says. “But I do want a new start.”
“You should have one.”
She watches me carefully. “You’re really not going to try to talk me out of it?”
“I want to.” I exhale. “Badly. There’s a very selfish part of me that wants to list every reason you should stay close enough that I can see you every day.”
Her eyes soften.
“But I won’t,” I say. “Because that would be for me. Not you.”
Her fingers tighten around the stem of her wineglass. For a moment, she says nothing.
Then she whispers, “Thank you.”
I nod once because my throat is tight.
The server brings our food. Neither of us moves toward it.
Laurel looks down at her plate, then laughs softly. “This poor pasta has no idea how emotionally inconvenient it is.”
That gets a real laugh out of me and her gaze snaps to mine, and for one second, she looks pleased with herself. I missed that.
I missed her.
She sets her napkin in her lap, then looks back up at me.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I’m taking Sex Activity Pro because I want a new professional start.”
“So you said.”
“But…” She swallows. “I don’t want a new life that doesn’t have you in it.”
I stop breathing. She holds my gaze, brave and terrified.
“I’m not saying everything is fine. It’s not. I’m still angry. And hurt. And embarrassed. And scared. Some days I hate that I love you because it would be so much easier if I didn’t.”
My chest cracks open.
“Laurel.”
“No. Let me say it before I become a coward.”
I shut my mouth. She takes a breath.
“I love you,” she says.
The words hit me so hard the room goes silent.
“I love you,” she says again, softer. “And I want to try life with you. Not hiding. Not stolen. Not as your employee. Not as the woman everyone whispers about at SINsual.” Her mouth trembles. “As your girlfriend.”
Girlfriend. Such a simple word. Almost too young and too ordinary. It shouldn’t undo me the way it does. But after months of mistress, affair, employee, scandal, other woman— Girlfriend feels like grace.
My hand moves across the table, and her fingers slide into mine.
“I would be honored,” I say.
Her eyes shine. “Very formal.”
“I’m trying not to drag you out of this restaurant.”
That makes her laugh, watery and beautiful.
“Noted.”
“I love you,” I say.
The words come easier now. True in a way that no longer feels like it has to fight its way through shame first.
“I love you, Laurel. And if girlfriend is what you want, then that’s what you are. Publicly. Clearly. Mine only if you want to be.”
Her thumb brushes over my knuckles. “I want to be.”
The rest of dinner is lighter. We talk about Sex Activity Pro.
About her start date. About whether she should negotiate for an additional design budget because, in her words, “if they want genius, they can fund genius.” We talk about the Sins launch, carefully, then less carefully.
We talk about Opal. Wilder. Tate. Owen’s tragic commitment to making everyone read policy documents.
We don’t talk about Jenna much. Not because she does not matter. Because tonight is not about taking anything else from her.
At the end of dinner, I pay the bill.
Laurel rolls her eyes. “I’m about to be disgustingly well-paid, you know.”
“I know.”
“So I can pay for dinner.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re going to be annoying about this, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. But I’m buying dessert next time.”
Next time. The words settle warm in my chest. There is a next time.
When we step outside, the air is cold enough to make her shiver. I take off my coat and drape it over her shoulders before she can protest.
She looks up at me.
“Sin.”
“I know. Independent woman. Feminism. Etcetera.”
Her mouth twitches. “Exactly.”
“You’re cold. So wear the coat.”
She pulls it tighter around herself. “Bossy boyfriend,” she mutters.
Boyfriend. God help me. I almost kiss her right there on the sidewalk.
I don’t because the first time I kiss her like this—after all of it, after the letter, after the decision, after girlfriend—I want it to be somewhere she can fall apart without the world watching.
The ride back to her apartment is quiet.
Her hand rests on the console. Mine finds it halfway through the drive. Our fingers lace together, and neither of us lets go.
At her building, the doorman nods to her by name. Good. She has people watching.
I walk her upstairs anyway because I need to see where she lives now. Her apartment is smaller than I expected. Boxes are still tucked against one wall. Books stacked in uneven piles. A throw blanket on the couch. A plant on the window ledge that looks judgmental.
“She has opinions,” Laurel says, following my gaze.
“The plant?”
“Her name is Claudia. She’s been through a lot.” Laurel smiles. “I got her on clearance after I killed my other plants.”