21. Adair
Adair
The drive back to our condos is quiet.
Not the comfortable kind. The kind where your brain won’t shut up, but you don’t have the energy to say any of it out loud.
Parker’s hands are tight on the wheel. Mine are fisted in my lap.
We look like a couple on the brink of divorce. Ironic, considering the whole thing’s barely two weeks old—and choreographed to end in divorce anyway. Just not this soon.
When he pulls into the lot and kills the engine, I finally say, “Well. That’s over.”
He unbuckles and lets out a sigh of relief. “Could’ve gone worse.”
“Could’ve gone better,” I say. But my voice is light now. It’s done. We did what we could.
He glances at me, and for a second, I think he’s going to dig in. Instead, I pop the door open. “Come in. I have wine.”
That gets him moving .
Inside, I kick off my heels like they personally offended me and head for the kitchen. I envision they are Paul’s face.
“Red or white?”
“Red,” he says, peeling off his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair like he lives here. Which, technically, he does. Sometimes. Sort of.
I pour two glasses and hand him one before collapsing onto the couch. He sinks in beside me, but stays quiet. The AC is on and working overtime, making the room a little chilly. It’s the only thing in here not full of tension.
I take a sip, then set my glass down. “You told me it wouldn’t be like this.”
He frowns. “Like what?”
“This.” I wave my hand toward the window, as if Paul is still out there lurking behind the hydrangeas. “The scrutiny. The interrogations. The middle-aged estate attorney with a folder thicker than a murder trial, trying to figure out if I’m some gold-digging criminal mastermind.”
Parker sighs and kneads the back of his neck. “Yeah. I didn’t know it’d be this intense either. Hopefully, this is the end of all that, and we run out the clock from here.”
I pause. Then say it before I lose the nerve. “And I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier. In the car.”
He meets my eyes. “Thank you for saying that. I'm sure you had your reasons. I'm sorry I pushed.”
“You didn’t deserve that.” I shift on the couch, suddenly restless. “I got another rejection from my pitch on Saturday.”
His expression changes. “Who did you see on Saturday?”
“Evelyn Thatcher.”
Realization flickers across his face. “Oh, that’s where you were? Doing a pitch? ”
I nod. “Big pitch. I saw the writing on the wall when I left, but I was still hanging on to hope she’d see something worth backing.
She said Citrine wasn’t a good fit for her portfolio.
That it’s not scalable. Which it totally is.
She’s tossing out Shark Tank buzzwords to essentially say, ‘Bye, Felicia.’”
“Who is Felicia?”
“Never mind. It’s a saying. I meant I could tell she was saying she wasn’t interested in investing in my line.”
“It means she’s a fool, then,” he says with a straight face. “And possibly delusional.”
I laugh under my breath, but it sticks in my throat. “You think so?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Without a doubt”
His endorsement, even if he's trying to make me feel better, is comforting.
I sip my wine, going over the night again. “It was a mobile ultrasound machine, you said. Nice ad lib, by the way.”
“Nice touch, huh?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
He cracks a small smile, and for a second, the air between us shifts. It's still heavy, but it's less suffocating.
I lean back against the couch cushion, glass resting on my thigh. “You think Anders is watching all this unfold like The Bachelor?”
He tilts his head. “If he is, we’re the weird off-brand couple no one’s betting on.”
I snort. “Speak for yourself. I’m the fan favorite. People loved a high-strung female. Not.”
Parker raises his glass for a toast. “You'd be my fan favorite.”
I clink mine against his and try not to think about how deep we’re in. Or, how much deeper it could get if we’re not careful.
There’s a warmth in his gaze as he looks at me, and I'm suddenly self-conscious under the weight of it.
“What?” I ask, raising a brow.
“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says with a smirk.
“Flustered?” I snort. “Try getting grilled by a lawyer about your fake marriage while still recovering from a full-blown micromanaging episode.”
Parker chuckles, leaning forward to set his glass on the coffee table. “Okay, I admit. I came on a little strong. We were both stressed. How about a truce?”
I grin. “Nope. I’m owning that meltdown. All me.”
He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still think I could’ve dialed it back. My timing was off.”
I wave him off. “Stop.”
His eyes soften. “You weren’t out of line.”
“Maybe not full lunatic,” I admit. “But I'm edging into overly sensitive territory. I need to regroup.”
He watches me. “You’re complicated and sharp and maddening in all the right ways. It’s nice to know you’re a little sensitive under that steel spine and smart-ass mouth. In the best way, I mean.”
I shake my head, but his low laugh cuts through me, and I can’t help but laugh too.
Parker leans in, his gaze flicking to my lips. “Turns out, complicated’s kind of my thing.”
A quiet inhale stutters in my throat. “Oh, you like a challenge, huh?”
His voice drops. “Only when it’s worth it.”
Then he kisses me with no hesitation, no overthinking. Just warm, steady pressure and the kind of softness that makes my heart stutter .
Parker pulls me onto his lap, his hands settling on my waist as the kiss deepens.
My body thrums with electricity, and suddenly the tension of the day melts completely away.
For the first time in hours, I’m not thinking about Paul or the inheritance or my failing business. I’m only thinking about him.
I straddle him as my hands caress down his chest, feeling every hard line under my palms. His mouth drags along my jaw, warm and hungry.
“Adair,” he breathes, voice rough with need.
“Hmm?” My thoughts scatter as his fingers seize my hips, pulling me closer.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he says, like a confession. Like he means it.
My smile grazes his lips. “Then stop wasting time talking and show me.”
The sharp buzz of Parker’s phone on the nightstand cuts through the air.
He groans, lips still on my neck. “It might be my dad. He flies out today.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m really hoping Leeland doesn’t join us in bed.”
Parker leans over, grabbing the phone long enough to glance at the screen. “Not him.” He tosses the phone aside without another thought, and it lands face-up on the cushion.
We’re tangled again in seconds. Heat, skin, breathless murmurs. I grind against him with a slow, filthy rhythm, and he groans my name like a prayer.
Then, there's a faint click and a woman’s voice rises from pillows. "Hello? Heee-lowww-oooo."
It's bright, syrupy, and unmistakably smug as it cuts through the haze.
“Parky-poo? Is that you? ”
I freeze, and every inch of me goes cold as it finally registers. It's that voice, the same one I heard on the video call last week. Soft, flirtatious, too damn familiar.
Parky-poo? What the absolute fuck?
He stiffens under me. “Shit,” he mutters, scrambling for the phone.
I’m already pulling away. “I'll leave you to your conversation, Parky-poo.”
“Adair. It's not--”
“No,” I snap, grabbing my shirt off the floor. “Save it.”
I’m off the sofa before he can say another word. My heart pounds in my ears as I shove my arms through the sleeves of my shirt. I fight back tears, but they aren't from hurt.
I'm pissed. I let it go before, figuring I was overreacting. Turns out, my gut was right.
Behind me, I hear her voice again, tinny and amused through the speaker. “What are you doing, silly? Are you okay?”
Yeah. He's fantastic.
Parker finally finds the phone in the pillows and clicks to end the call without speaking.
“Adair....”
“Go,” I say, my voice firm. "Just go."
I head down the hallway before he can say anything else, disappearing into my bedroom and shutting the door behind me. Not slamming it. Just… shutting.
“Fine. I’ll go. But this isn’t over,” he shouts after me.
I don’t respond and stand inside my room out of eyeshot with my arms crossed, waiting until he leaves to breathe.
A few seconds pass. Then footsteps and the sound of the front door opening. Closing.
Silence .
I wait a few seconds more, not breathing or moving. Listening.
He’s gone.
At least he heard me earlier about knowing when to push and when to back off. Because trying to smooth this over right now wouldn’t have ended well.
I walk back out, cross the room, and sink onto the couch.
The first time, I let it slide. Told myself I was overreacting, that he had a life outside of this, and he didn’t owe me a damn thing.
But this isn’t right. It’s confirmation that I’m a sucker. I mean, really? She had to call in at that exact moment ? If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.
He doesn’t owe me loyalty. That was never part of it. But I don’t owe him sex, either. That’s what’s messing with my head. It blurs the lines, makes me forget this whole thing’s fake.
I reach for my wine glass, take a long sip, and set it down.
I did the thing. We got married, and I played the part for his dad and the estate guy. That’s what I agreed to.
It's time to go back to our lives and grind through the next five or however many months.
Because I’m done with this shit.
Less than an hour ago, I was in his lap. His lips were on mine, his voice in my ear, saying I drove him crazy. Now I’m crazy.
I sit cross-legged on the couch, my laptop balanced on a pillow in front of me. The empty wine glass sits on the coffee table, mocking me with its hollow echo of a night gone wrong.
I drag the cursor across the screen, switching colors, tweaking fonts, trying to bring some life into the new branding design for my café product line.
But no matter what I try, everything looks wrong.
The pale pink and sage green I thought would exude elegance now seem bland.
I switch to bold navy and gold, hoping for a more luxurious feel, but it feels pretentious and off-brand.
Frustrated, I try bright, cheerful colors like coral and turquoise.
They clash horribly with the minimalist vibe I was going for.
“Why can’t I get this right?” I mutter to myself, leaning back and glaring at the screen.
The wellness logo, a delicate script of Citrine Botanicals , stares back at me. I erase it and try blocky, modern lettering instead. It looks cold and sterile. Evelyn’s voice echoes in my head.
I shut my laptop with a snap and toss the pillow aside, letting my head fall into my hands. Knockoff. That word burrows deep under my skin, poking at the insecurities I’ve tried so hard to ignore.
I grab my sketchpad and pencil from the coffee table, determined to map out a new concept by hand. If the digital designs aren’t working, maybe this will. I draw a sprig of lavender, thinking it could tie into a natural, calming aesthetic. But it’s lopsided, and the shading is all wrong.
I crumple the page and toss it onto the growing pile on the floor.
“Why can’t I get this right?” I mutter, glaring at the screen.
I grab another piece of paper, my pencil trembling slightly as I start sketching again. I try a circular design with intertwining flowers, imagining it on a jar of face cream or a bottle of bath oil. For a moment, a flicker of hope shoots through me.
Then I step back and see it. It looks amateurish, like something I would’ve drawn in high school.
The paper joins the pile on the floor.
Tears well up in my eyes, but I blink them away, refusing to let them fall. I’ve cried enough this week. I’ve cried enough this year.
I slam the laptop shut again and throw the sketchpad on top of it.
Nothing is working. Not Citrine, not the branding, not the means-to-an-end marriage. Everything I touch turns into a slow-burning pile of shit.
The deposits from Parker are helping. Two installments in, fifteen total. It's enough to keep the doors open, restock supplies, and pay off the worst of the late invoices. But it’s not enough to solve the problem. It won’t save Citrine.
Still, it buys me time. A little breathing room, a few more weeks to figure out how to make this work—or at least pretend I can.
I’ve thought about it, just handing the whole thing over to Bets. I could let her gut it, rebrand it, sell the name to a wellness chain in Miami, and walk away with a clean break and no more calls about overhead and growth projections.
But the thought of surrendering it to her makes my stomach turn.
I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as I stare at the pile of crumpled sketches on the floor.
There has to be a way to fix this, to hold on to what I built .
But what if there isn’t?
What if this mess, this sick feeling in my gut, is the part no one comes back from?