Chapter 15 Phoenix
PHOENIX
Iwake up and for a moment, I don't remember what had happened. Then I feel her.
Jade is in my bed. Her dark hair spread across my pillow. Her body curled against mine like she belongs there.
We had sex. On my desk. Against the window. In my office. And it was everything I've imagined for seventeen years. Every fantasy I've had since I was old enough to understand what wanting someone meant.
She's here. Real. Mine.
The sun is barely up, pale light filtering through the windows. I should get up, let her sleep, give her space to process what happened.
Instead, I pull her closer and let myself have this. Just this. One perfect moment before reality crashes back in.
She stirs against me, makes a small sound, then settles back into sleep. Her hand is on my chest, right over my heart. I wonder if she can feel how hard it's pounding.
I've had women in this bed before. Beautiful women who knew the rules, who wanted the same things I did. No strings, no expectations, just mutual pleasure and convenience.
But Jade is different.
She's not supposed to be here. Not like this. Not curled against me like she trusts me, like she's safe with me.
Not when I'm lying to her about everything that matters.
Hours later, the sun has set and I find her in my bathroom.
She's standing in front of the mirror in just my shirt, staring at her reflection like she doesn't recognize the woman looking back. Her hair is messy from sleep and sex. Her lips are still slightly swollen from kissing. There are marks on her neck that I put there.
She looks wrecked and perfect.
"Hey," I say from the doorway.
She jumps, hand flying to her chest. "God, you scared me."
"Sorry." I walk toward her slowly. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Just needed a minute." She turns back to the mirror, running her fingers through her hair. "I should probably shower. Go back to the guest house."
"Or you could shower here." I reach past her to turn on the shower. Water starts to heat up, steam beginning to rise. "Stay."
"Phoenix, I can shower in the guest house—"
"Stay." I pull the shirt over her head before she can protest. She's naked underneath, and even after last night, the sight of her makes my breath catch.
"Come on." I guide her toward the shower, stripping off my underwear.
Under the spray, she's tense at first. Uncertain. Like she doesn't know what this is or what it means. I don't either. But I know I want it. I reach for the shampoo and pour some into my palm.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Washing your hair."
"I can do that myself."
"I know." I work the shampoo through her hair, gentle, careful. "Let me."
She relaxes slightly under my touch. I tilt her head back under the spray, watching the soap rinse away, and realize I'm caring for her in a way I've never cared for anyone.
When did I get so tender? When did I become the kind of man who washes a woman's hair instead of just fucking her and sending her home?
I soap my hands and run them over her body. Not sexual, though my body responds to every curve, every soft sound she makes. I want to learn every inch of her and memorize every dimple.
She's watching me with those dark eyes that see too much.
"Where did you get that?" She touches a scar on my ribs.
"Surfing accident. I was twelve years old. Caught a reef wrong."
Her fingers trace to another scar on my shoulder. "And that?"
"Rock climbing at Stanford. Stupid bet with my roommate."
"You have a lot of scars."
"I do dumb things when I'm bored."
"Like pay off a stranger's debt and fly her to California?"
I pause, soap still in my hands. "That wasn't stupid. That was the smartest thing I've ever done."
She doesn't know what to say to that. Neither do I.
I finish washing her in silence. She lets me, doesn't protest, just watches me with an expression I can't read.
When we're done, I turn off the water and wrap her in a towel. It's huge and soft and probably costs more than most people spend on their entire bathroom. She's swallowed by it, and something in my chest tightens at the sight.
"I should go back to the guest house," she says, but she doesn't move.
"Stay."
"Phoenix—"
"Please. Just for tonight. Stay."
She should say no. I can see it in her eyes, the war she's fighting with herself. Every reason she should walk away.
But she doesn't.
"Okay," she says softly. "Just for tonight."
We both know it's a lie. One night will become two. Two will become more. We're already in too deep to pretend otherwise.
I give her one of my shirts. Soft cotton, worn from years of washing, smells like my laundry detergent and me. She puts it on and it's huge on her, falling to mid-thigh.
I stare.
"What?" she asks, pulling at the hem self-consciously.
"You. In my shirt. In my room." I shake my head. "It's..."
"A problem?"
"No. The opposite of a problem."
We get into bed. She takes one side, I take the other. There's space between us, both of us trying to be respectful, trying to figure out what this is.
Both of us staring at the ceiling.
"This is weird," she says.
"Yeah."
"We just had sex on your desk."
"Yeah."
"And now we're in your bed."
"Yeah."
"And I don't know what this means."
I turn to face her. "It means whatever you want it to mean."
"That's not helpful."
"What do you want it to mean?"
"I don't know." She's quiet for a moment. "I don't do this."
"Do what?"
"Sleep with guys I barely know. Stay over. Wear their shirts."
"You know me."
"Do I?" She turns to look at me. "Really?"
The question is loaded. Because no, she doesn't know me. Not really. She doesn't know about the photograph I stole when I was ten. Doesn't know I've been reading her blog for years. Doesn't know about the investor dinner on Friday or the real reason I need her there.
She doesn't know any of it. So, she rolls over, facing away from me and bids me goodnight.
I should let her have her space. Should respect the boundary she's trying to create.
Instead, I move closer. Slide my arm around her waist. Pull her back against my chest.
"What are you doing?" Her voice is soft, not quite a protest.
"Holding you."
She's quiet for so long I think she's going to say no. Going to pull away and put that distance back between us.
"Okay," she finally whispers.
Her body is warm against mine. My arm fits perfectly around her waist. She feels right here, like this is where she's supposed to be.
Like I've been waiting seventeen years for exactly this moment.
My breath stirs her hair. "Jade?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you came to me tonight."
"Me too."
"Yeah?"
"Don't make me say it again."
I smile against her shoulder. Feel her body relax into mine. Feel her breathing slow and deepen as she drifts toward sleep.
"Phoenix?"
"Mm?"
"This doesn't change anything."
"I know."
But we both know it changes everything.
She falls asleep in my arms. I can tell by the way her breathing evens out, the way her body goes completely soft and pliant.
I stay awake.
Listening to her breathe. Feeling her heartbeat against my arm. Memorizing the weight of her, the warmth of her, the way she fits against me like she was made for it.
Guilt creeps in like poison.
She doesn't know that I’ve been reading her private thoughts for years. She doesn’t know that I’ve been watching her for a long time.
She doesn't know I tracked her GPS and that I know exactly where she went, how long she stayed, when she started driving back.
She doesn't know Friday's dinner is a test. That the investors want to see me "settled" before they trust me with their money. That she's part of a business strategy I set in motion before I ever sent that check.
She thinks this is real.
And maybe it is now. But it started as a lie.
And lies always come out.
I should tell her. Should wake her up right now and confess everything. The photograph, the stalking, the business deal. All of it.
Face her anger. Her hurt. Watch her pack her things and leave.
But I'm a coward.
I hold her tighter instead.
"I'm sorry," I whisper into her hair.
She doesn't hear. She's asleep, safe in my arms, not knowing she's in bed with someone who's been lying to her from the start.
Tomorrow. I'll tell her tomorrow.
Or the next day.
Or after the investor dinner.
Or maybe never.
I don't know. All I know is this: she's here now. In my bed. In my shirt. In my arms.
And for tonight, that's enough.
I finally let myself sleep, still holding her. Her hair smells like my shampoo now. Her body fits against mine perfectly, like she was made for me. Like I've been waiting seventeen years for exactly this.
Maybe I have.
The last thought I have before sleep takes me is this: I might lose her when she finds out the truth.
And losing her is going to destroy me.
Tonight, I just hold her and pretend everything is as simple as it feels in this moment.
Tonight, I let myself believe the lie.