Chapter 6
Claire
The business dinner party is in full swing when I arrive through the back entrance.
Jonathan texted that his shoulder was acting up before his presentation, and I agreed to come by for a quick treatment.
He did warn me that Stuart had some people over but what I didn't expect was to walk into a house full of doctors, pharmaceutical executives, and healthcare investors—Stuart's world on full display.
I slip through the kitchen, hoping to find Jonathan without drawing attention.
The caterers barely glance at me as I navigate toward the home gym where he said he'd be waiting. I’m glad I decided to wear my most professional outfit—a black pencil skirt and silk blouse that I hoped would help me blend in.
"She's just some alternative medicine practitioner Jonathan hired," Stuart's voice carries from the adjacent study, stopping me in my tracks. "You know how he is about trying every new wellness trend."
My stomach drops. Just some alternative medicine practitioner. The words hit me so hard they practically sting.
"Chiropractic isn't even real medicine," another man’s voice continues. "It's dressed-up massage therapy with delusions of grandeur. Woo-woo medicine at best."
I wait for Stuart to defend my profession, to mention our debate where he admitted chiropractic work had its place in treatment protocols. Instead, he makes a noncommittal sound like an agreement.
"Stuart's being a dick," Jonathan's voice cuts in, sharp with anger. "Claire's brilliant. She has treated professional athletes, and knows more about biomechanics than most physical therapists I've worked with."
"No need to get defensive," Stuart says coolly. "I'm simply stating facts. She provides a service you find helpful."
"A service?" Jonathan's voice rises. "She's not the fucking help, Stuart. She's a doctor."
"A doctor of chiropractic," Stuart clarifies with subtle condescension. "It's not quite the same thing."
I back away before I hear more, my eyes burning with unshed tears. Of course. Of course Stuart would diminish me in front of his colleagues. Heaven forbid the great neurosurgeon admit he respects someone who practices alternative medicine.
I slip into a bathroom while I get myself together. I look at myself in the mirror. Why would I think Stuart would say anything other than what he’s said? What has he done that shows that he supports me in any way?
Get yourself together and go do your job, Claire.
I head to the gym and find Jonathan there, his jaw tight with residual anger, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"You heard," he says, not a question.
"Enough."
"He's an asshole. A brilliant, emotionally constipated asshole who doesn't deserve—" He stops, running his hand through his hair in frustration. "I'm sorry. He's not usually that cruel."
"It's not your fault and you definitely don’t need to apologize for him." I set down my bag, forcing professional calm even though my hands are shaking slightly. "Let's work on that shoulder."
Jonathan watches me as I prepare, his gaze soft with concern. "Claire—"
"Please. Let's just focus on your treatment and put all the noise aside."
I work on his shoulder in silence, using deeper pressure than usual, channeling my hurt into therapeutic touch. Jonathan bears it without complaint, though I know it must be uncomfortable. His muscles are tighter than usual, probably from the stress of preparing for his presentation.
"You're pressing pretty hard," he finally says gently.
"Sorry." I ease up, ashamed of taking my emotions out on him. "I'm not usually so—"
"Human? You're allowed to be upset when someone you care about acts like a jackass."
"I don't care about Stuart."
"Liar." But he says it kindly, with understanding rather than judgment.
The truth of it hits me as I work on a particularly tight spot in his deltoid.
I do care. About all of them actually. About Stuart's hidden vulnerability beneath all that ice, Jonathan's genuine warmth and protective instincts, Dane's quiet intensity and surprising tenderness.
Somewhere between that first night and now, I've let them all in.
"This is so complicated," I whisper, my hands still working on his shoulder.
"The best things usually are."
I finish the treatment, and Jonathan rolls his shoulder experimentally. "Perfect. You're a miracle worker."
"I'm a trained professional, not a miracle worker."
"Same difference in my book." He stands, pulling on his dress shirt, and I try not to notice how his muscles move under his skin. "Stay for the party?"
"I shouldn't—"
"Please? I need someone there who doesn't think I'm just a meathead with a fitness channel. Someone who sees me as more than just muscles and subscriber counts. Plus, you may make some good contacts. Not everyone here is as closed off to your profession as Stuart is."
Against my better judgment, I agree. The party is exactly what I expected—elegant, sophisticated, and completely out of my league.
I nurse a single glass of wine in the corner, watching Stuart work the room.
He's in his element here, commanding attention without trying, every inch the brilliant surgeon.
He doesn't acknowledge my presence once, though I catch him glancing in my direction when he thinks I’m not looking.
Dane finds me during Jonathan's presentation, appearing at my elbow.
"You look ready to bolt," he observes, handing me a fresh glass of wine.
"I don't belong here."
"Neither do I. These things are Stuart's domain, and Jonathan tolerates them for networking. I'm just here for the expensive whiskey and character studies."
"Find any interesting characters?"
"One." He looks at me meaningfully. "A woman trying to disappear into the wallpaper even though she is the most interesting person in the room."
"Dane—"
"He was wrong. What he said. Stuart knows it, which is why he's been avoiding looking at you all night. He's consumed with guilt."
"He's embarrassed by me."
"He's embarrassed by himself. By wanting something that doesn't fit his image." Dane sips his whiskey. "Stuart's spent so long being what everyone expects—the brilliant surgeon—he's forgotten how to want things just for himself."
"That's not my problem to solve."
"No," Dane agrees. "It's not. But it might be your opportunity to explore."
I escape as soon as Jonathan's presentation ends, slipping out without goodbyes.
The walk back to Lottie's feels endless even though it's right next door, my heels clicking against pavement in rhythm with my racing thoughts.
The night air is cool against my flushed skin, and I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I'd brought a jacket.
Lottie takes one look at my face when I enter and immediately pours two generous glasses of wine.
"Men trouble," she diagnoses, pulling me onto the couch. Geoffrey jumps up and immediately settles in between the two of us. "Specifically, those three complicated idiots next door."
"How did you—"
"Darling, I've been married five times. I know romantic turmoil when I see it. Plus, you're wearing your good lingerie under that outfit." She hands me the wine with a knowing smile. "Talk to your Aunt Lottie."
Maybe it's the wine, or the emotional whiplash of the evening, but I find myself spilling everything.
Stuart and the hotel, that incredible night followed by him leaving his business card that felt like he was dismissing me, Jonathan's growing interest and protective fury tonight, that unexpected kiss with Dane that still makes my lips tingle, and tonight's overheard conversation.
"I'm attracted to all of them," I confess, mortified by the admission.
"Stuart makes me feel alive in a way that scares me—like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff.
Jonathan makes me feel valued and protected, like I'm worth defending.
And Dane... Dane engages parts of my mind I forgot existed, makes me think and question and want to explore. What kind of person does that make me?"
Lottie laughs, but not unkindly, as she strokes Geoffrey’s head. "It makes you more honest than most people ever dare to be."
"It's not normal."
"Normal is overrated. Do you think five marriages is normal?" She refills our glasses. "Traditional relationships didn't work for me either, darling. Sometimes the heart wants what it wants—even if it wants multiple someones."
"Are you serious?"
"I am." Her eyes get a distant, dreamy look. "A long time ago, before husband number three, I was in a relationship with multiple partners. Two men who adored me in completely different ways. It was the most honest, fulfilling connection I'd ever experienced."
"What happened?"
"Society happened. Judgment, pressure, expectations.
I chose conformity over happiness, and I've regretted it ever since.
" She takes my hand, squeezing gently. "Don't make the same mistake I did, Claire.
If those men make you happy—all of them—then maybe that's worth exploring.
Life's too short for conventional love if unconventional is what sets your soul on fire. "
"But they're friends. It would destroy their friendship."
"Would it? Have you actually asked them what they want?"
A knock at the front door interrupts before I can answer. I open the door and Jonathan stands there, looking disheveled from changing out of his presentation clothes. He’s holding a box of expensive chocolates and a bottle of wine.
"Peace offering," he says, giving them to me. "For Stuart being an insufferable ass."
Lottie takes the chocolates with a knowing smile. "I'll be in my room with my shows and these lovely sweets. You two chat. Take all the time you need." She makes a clicking noise with her tongue and Geoffrey jumps off the couch and follows her up the stairs.
When we're alone, Jonathan sits beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth.
"I'm sorry about tonight," he says softly.
"You defended me."