Chapter 21 Kate
KATE
LACES UNTIED
“Didn’t see the slip, didn’t see the slide / You had me falling, laces untied.” Kate Riggs
Sunlight filters through gauzy linen curtains, warm and almost too gentle for the chaos in my chest.
Finn must have left because the spot next to me was cold. The sheets were tossed back in that casual way that screams he was comfortable here.
I wasn’t. It feels great, sure. But do I belong? Not yet. Maybe one day. But it’s not today.
I glance around the room, and there’s a note on the nightstand in his all-caps scrawl: Gym downstairs. Didn’t want to wake you. Coffee’s on. —F.
I sit up slowly, and the silk sheet slips off one shoulder. My body is still warm and still glowing. A pleasant ache trails everywhere he touched me. And he’d felt all of me.
Last night hadn’t been planned. It hadn’t been part of the deal. But it had been...everything. Still, the fear creeps in before my feet even hit the floor.
What if I am just a distraction? The echoes of the mean girls are hard to ignore.
What if I started falling for a man who doesn’t know how to stay? What if I fall for a man who doesn’t need me as a meal ticket?
I pad into the kitchen, pour myself a cup of coffee, and then grab my phone. I need to find a grounding. I need Shay.
She answers on the second ring, still half-asleep, wrapped in a blanket like a human burrito.
“Oh my god,” she said, voice raspy. “You did it, didn’t you?”
I groan and sink onto a barstool. “Define ‘it.’”
“You know it. Horizontal cardio. Mattress dancing. The sin tango. Did he grill your steak and then—”
“Shay.”
“You did.” She snorts. “You sound guilty. Did he ruin you?”
I paused. “...A little.”
“Damn,” she breathed. “I need more coffee for this.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit. “It was amazing. He was...amazing. I think I’m falling for my husband. But this is all fake. It’s supposed to be fake.”
Sadness settles into my bones. This is a fake marriage. I need a rulebook, no—a playbook.
Like, if he gives me that smile that turns me inside out, I need to tell myself it’s not real. If he texted me, it’s because he’s obligated to.
And when he makes love to me?
I need to convince myself that I’m going to hell for sinning.
Shay’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “So what if it started that way? Doesn’t mean it has to stay fake.”
“I’m scared,” I whisper. “I like him. Like, really like him. But if I let this happen... if I let him happen... I don’t think I’ll come back from it when it ends.”
She’s quiet for a beat. “Then maybe don’t let it end.”
I don’t answer. Because deep down, I already know—
I can’t control that. It’s too late for me because I’ve caught feelings.
And it’s as if Finn’s been queued into the current montage of my life. He walks in, larger than life, and he leans over my shoulder and says hi to Shay.
He then informs me that he’s meeting the boys. This means he’ll be out with his teammates with that silver Cup in tow. They’ve been my rivals for his attention. Not women, the team, which is ironic. However, the team won the Stanley Cup, and they need to savor the victory. I get that.
“Great. I have work to do, and remember I have my concert tomorrow night.”
“Yeah, yeah, the jets confirmed,” he says, but I think he’s distracted.
“Okay, I’m gonna curl up in the solarium and get some writing done.”
He leans in and kisses me, waves to Shay, whom I’ve FaceTimed, and leaves out the kitchen door. I don’t know which vehicle he took, one of the sports cars or the SUV.
“Anyway, as I was saying—her voice pauses. Then she says, “Damn, he’s handsome. I see your dilemma.”
“You’re not helping,” I snark.
“Hey, I call ‘em the way I see them. Meanwhile, I’m enjoying having all 600 feet of the apartment to myself.”
“Traitor,” I spat, but honestly, I’m glad she’s not lonely.
I ring off with Shay, because I have work to do.
I grab my guitar and journal before I head to the solarium. I really want to explore my new surroundings and see the neighborhood, but duty calls. Luckily, I’m in my creative zone.
I sit on the white leather couch and strum a few chords.
I write notes and try them again, keeping a mental note of the time. We’re to fly to Connecticut for my show tomorrow. I’m meeting with Rusty, my guitarist, to go over my songs before the show tomorrow night.
By 3 PM, I’m packed and ready—but Finn’s nowhere to be found.
I called him, but it went to voicemail.
“Hello, this is Finn, you know what to do.”
I’m not going to dignify that with a message. How could he forget my concert?
I make arrangements for a commercial flight. Then, I rip a page from my journal and write: “This isn’t working. —K.”
I leave it on the kitchen counter.
Then, I throw my luggage and guitar into the white SUV, grabbing the keys off a hook in the laundry room on my way out.
He wants me to be independent? Well, this is what it looks like.