36. Kate
Kate
The snow here melts slower. Like the cold doesn’t want to leave.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of the penthouse suite Drew insisted I live in. The lights from Michael’s casino blink like seductive promises in the distance.
Drew’s territory was a different world. Sleeker.
Colder. Less nostalgic than my little harbor town.
No muddy boots here. No Gertie’s pancakes.
No Amber tracking in pine needles. Most days she spent by his enormous gas fireplace on a luxury doggy bed he bought her.
Here it was silk sheets, hard bourbon, and men with expensive watches and dead eyes.
Drew Guerra wasn’t what I expected. He was the type of man who walked into a room and the air shifted. Everyone either feared him or wanted to be owned by him.
Except me.
To be fair, he didn’t take my indifference personally. He took it as a challenge.
I turned from the window as he entered, two glasses of wine in hand, his blazer open, dark shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Casual, but practiced. He knew what he was doing.
“Red or white?” he asked, holding them up like a magician about to perform.
“Decaf coffee.”
He smirked, unapologetic. “Still pretending you’re immune to charm. Cute.”
“I’m not pretending,” I replied, folding my arms as I leaned back against the counter.
He crossed the room slowly, like a predator who knew his prey wasn’t running. “You live in my penthouse. You eat my food. You wear one of my robes to bed—don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“It was in the closet. And it’s soft.”
“So am I.” He grinned, cocky and beautiful and too dangerous to fall for.
“Drew…” I gave him a warning look. “You know I’m not ready.”
He sighed and handed me the red. I took it, because despite myself, I liked when we did this dance.
“I’m not asking you to marry me,” he said, sitting on the edge of the coffee table across from me. “I’m just saying I make a hell of a rebound.”
“I’m not rebounding,” I said softly.
His gaze dropped, then lifted again, more serious now. “Still hung up on him?”
I sipped. “I was in love with him.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t scoff or mock. Just nodded, like he understood. “Love makes fools of all of us. And sometimes corpses.”
I stared into my wineglass. “Thanks. That’s comforting.”
He chuckled, and for a moment, we sat there in silence, sharing the kind of quiet that only two people who’ve seen too much can understand.
“I’m not the villain, Kate,” he said finally. “I might be his rival, sure. But I’m not trying to ruin you.”
“I know,” I whispered. “You’ve been… more of a friend than I expected.”
He raised his glass in a mock toast. “To friends with emotional landmines.”
I clinked his glass lightly. “I’m not trying to lead you on.”
“I know that too. Doesn’t mean I won’t try my best to seduce you when the mood hits.”
“Drew…”
He raised a palm. “Fine, fine. No heavy flirting tonight. But if you decide to join me for dinner at the private chef's table, wear that red silk dress you pretended not to pack.”
I shook my head, trying not to smile. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And you’re still in love with a man whose engaged to someone else.”
That cut deeper than it should’ve. I looked away.
He stood, set down his wine, and walked toward the door.
“Oh, and Kate?” he added, glancing over his shoulder. “You may not be rebounding, but if you ever want to learn how to forget him for a night—I know what I’m doing.”
I didn’t answer. Just let the door click behind him as he left.
Because the truth was—I wasn’t ready to forget.
But sometimes, it was tempting.
The club throbbed like a living heartbeat, bass vibrating through my bones, lights strobing in fractured reds and blues.
I’d come here to drown Michael in the noise, in the crush of bodies, in the burn of tequila sliding down my throat.
Drew had dragged me out—said I needed to stop haunting his penthouse like a ghost. I wore the red silk dress, the one that clung to every curve, because why the hell not? Heartbreak looked good on me tonight.
I danced alone at first, eyes closed, hips swaying to the rhythm, pretending the hands brushing past were his.
But then Drew was there, his body pressing in from behind, hands on my waist, guiding me with that effortless command.
I didn’t stop him. The alcohol blurred the edges, made the pain recede just enough to breathe.
He leaned in, lips grazing my ear. “Come with me.”
I let him pull me through the crowd, away from the chaos, into a quiet private room at the back. The door sealed shut, plunging us into pitch black. No lights, no windows—just darkness thick as velvet, swallowing everything.
His hands found me instantly, everywhere at once.
Palms sliding up my arms, over my shoulders, tugging the thin straps of my dress down until they pooled at my elbows.
Lips on my neck, hot and insistent, trailing fire down to my collarbone.
I arched into him, drunk and desperate, whispering to myself that this was Michael.
It had to be. The heartbreak clawed at my chest, raw and unrelenting—I just wanted it to end, even for a moment.
His mouth closed over my nipple, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks shooting through me.
One hand cupped my breast, the other slipped between my thighs, fingers pushing aside the lace of my panties, finding me slick and aching.
He stroked me mercilessly, circling my clit, dipping inside until my legs trembled.
I came hard, shattering in the dark, body clenching around his fingers as waves crashed over me. “Michael,” I whispered, the name slipping out like a betrayal, tears mixing with sweat on my cheeks.
He froze for a heartbeat, then pulled back just enough to kiss the tears away, his lips gentle now, tasting salt and regret. Without a word, he lifted me into his arms—strong, steady—and carried me out. Through a hidden door, into a private elevator that whisked us up to the penthouse in silence.
He laid me on the bed, the room spinning softly as the high faded. I curled into the sheets, dress askew, and looked up at him through blurry eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, voice breaking. “It can never be you. Not when I met him first.”
Drew stood there, shadows playing over the sharp angles of his face, unreadable. He was handsome. Dangerous. Manly. Michaels equal in every way. But my heart was already owned. Completely. He didn’t argue. Just nodded once, turned off the light, and left me to the emptiness of my midnights.
The lights of the town I left behind flickered like distant stars, cold and unreachable.
I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of Drew’s penthouse at dawn the next day, my robe slipping from one shoulder, clinging loosely to my hips.
A glass of water dangled from my fingers—wine was a bad idea now—and I couldn’t stop the slow ache pulsing in my chest.
Michael.
He was everywhere and nowhere. In the ghost of hands on my skin, in the silence that screamed louder than any goodbye.
I felt Drew before I heard him—the heat of him at my back, his energy distinct, potent, but careful now. He didn’t speak right away, just stepped close, close enough that my breath caught.
“You’re breaking your own heart standing here like this,” he said low, voice rough from the night.
“You think I don’t know that?”
He didn’t touch me. Just stood there, a solid presence in the wreckage.
“I shouldn’t have let it happen,” I whispered.
“But you did.”
I let my eyes close, the memory of the dark room flooding back—his mouth, his hands, my whispered betrayal.
“I’m still in love with him,” I said finally, voice barely a breath. “And last night… I used you. I hate myself for it.”
He exhaled, the sound heavy. “I’ll be close by. For as long as you need me. But I won’t touch you again unless you ask—and mean it.”
And just like that, he was gone.
I collapsed into the velvet chair by the window, robe still loose, heart even heavier. My body remembered the release, but my soul ached for something it couldn't have.
The penthouse felt empty without Drew’s footsteps echoing down the hallway.
He became a ghost. I’d catch a glimpse of him slipping out at dawn or sliding in after midnight, always with a curt nod, never the teasing grin that used to make my pulse stutter.
The red silk dress hung in the back of the closet, unworn since that night.
We didn’t speak of it. We barely spoke at all.
Weeks bled into silence thick enough to choke on.
Then the knock came—three sharp raps, not Drew’s lazy double-tap. I opened the door to a woman I’d never seen before. Tall, cropped black hair, shoulders like a linebacker under a tailored blazer. She didn’t smile.
“Pack light,” she said. “Ten minutes. Bring your dog.”
“Who the hell?—”
“Name’s Vega. I work for the people who keep you breathing. Move.”
I packed— jeans, hoodies, the soft robe Drew hated me wearing. No makeup, no jewelry. She watched like a hawk, then handed me a folded uniform—khaki pants, polo shirt, baseball cap. Beverage-services logo on the chest.
“Put it on.”
Down in the service bay, a white panel van idled beside crates of imported sparkling water.
Vega shoved me in the back, pulled the doors shut, and we rolled out past the doorman who never even looked up.
Forty minutes of potholes and engine rumbles, then the fast food smells and two car changes—gave way to pine and river damp.
The van stopped. Vega opened the doors to a dirt road swallowed by trees.
Amber bounded out, barking happily. She felt free.
There was no sign, no mailbox—just a narrow track winding downhill.
She shouldered my duffel and marched. I followed, sneakers crunching on gravel, until the A-frame appeared: cedar shingles, green tin roof, chimney already puffing lazy smoke against the dusk.