Monochrome Without You

Chapter One

Jules

Bright . Everything is obnoxiously bright as I peel open an eyelid. This isn’t my bedroom ceiling. It’s white. Sterile. Gross. Ceilings were made for color. For dashes of cobalt and copper and crimson.

I shift on the too-firm mattress, my body sore in places I haven’t felt in a long time. Wait. Am I naked?

I lift the white sheet. Yep, naked .

My stomach twists when I recognize the room. Uh oh. My pulse pounds in my ears as I take in the pristine white sheets, the perfectly aligned picture frames, the scent of crisp cologne lingering in the air. No! No, no, no .

I force my gaze to the adjoining bathroom. A silhouette moves behind the water-stained glass shower door. His silhouette.

Corbin .

What the hell did I do last night?

Moving carefully, I inch out of the bed, ignoring the way my thighs protest from overuse. I barely suppress a groan as I crawl along the glossy marble floor, scanning for my clothes. They’re nowhere in sight.

And then I see them. Folded neatly on his white dresser, like some kind of a twisted farewell gift. Jeans, blouse… and my bright green thong.

Who the hell folds a thong?

Corbin. That’s who.

I swipe my clothes off his dresser, my hands fumbling as I slip into my jeans. I need to get out of here before he catches me.

The shower hums in the background as I tiptoe past, but my traitorous gaze flicks sideways.

His broad, toned back shifts under the spray of water, every inch of him rigid and controlled, just like always. But lower… my god. His ass is absolute perfection.

I tear my eyes away, muttering under my breath, “Focus, Jules!” I need to find my purse. My phone. If Tate calls and I don’t answer—

Tate .

A wave of nausea rolls through me, hot and sudden, tightening in my chest. He can’t find out about this. We’ve spent two years making sure he knows his parents aren’t getting back together. One night isn’t a reason to give him false hope.

Last night was a weak moment. That’s all it was.

A moment of looking in those icy blue eyes over a bottle of wine—or two—and letting myself remember.

Remember what we used to mean to each other before our differences made it hard to live together.

Before we tossed around the word ‘divorce’ one day, and Corbin filed papers that afternoon—without a fight.

He let me go without a fight. I mean, how could he? It doesn’t matter now.

The immaculately furnished house is eerily quiet as I make my way down the stairs, my heart tight in my chest.

When I used to live here, this place had color. Life. Me . Vibrant sunsets, watercolor landscapes, dark cityscapes dotted with twinkling stars. My art filled these walls.

Corbin took them all down when I left. I can’t say I blame him. But still.

Now, the walls are white. Just like the furniture. The only splash of color in this mausoleum is the stainless steel appliances.

What a shame. Life is so vibrantly beautiful.

Why would anyone want to live like this?

Without a deep green dining room wall covered in violets and sunflowers.

Or a bright pink coffee table stacked with books and gold cat statues.

Or the funny little Christmas gnome that was too cute to pack away with the decorations.

I bite my lip, pushing the thought aside as I grab my purse off the counter.

“Mom?”

My stomach drops.

Oh, no. I’ve been caught.

I quickly tuck a strand of curly amber hair behind my ear, pasting a too-wide smile on my face before I turn.

“Hey, bud!” I say, opening my arms just as Tate barrels into me.

His blond little head presses into my stomach, his tiny arms wrapping tight. I clutch him close, inhaling the scent of strawberry shampoo and sleepy little boy warmth.

He pulls back, icy blue eyes blinking up at me. Corbin’s eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, frowning. His gaze flicks down to my outfit. “And why are you wearing the clothes you wore yesterday?”

My heart lurches.

I quickly glance toward the entryway. His backpack. The one I dropped off last night.

My cover.

I clear my throat. “You left your backpack in my car,” I say, voice steady. “Thought you might need it for school this morning.”

Tate exhales dramatically, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I did that. Why do I keep forgetting stuff?”

Guilt tugs at my chest. He looks genuinely upset, like leaving a backpack somewhere is some monumental failure.

I smooth my fingers through his messy blond hair, offering a small smile. “It’s okay, bud.”

He leans into my touch, sighing. God, I love this kid.

I step back, shifting my purse onto my shoulder. “I should get going. Tell your dad I said hi.”

“You could tell him yourself.” The deep, familiar voice slides over me like warm silk—smooth, too knowing, too confident.

Damn it.

I turn just in time to see Corbin stroll into the kitchen. Black dress slacks. A crisp white dress shirt. Not a single wrinkle. Not a hair out of place.

My gaze drops to my own attire. Skinny jeans. Crumpled pink blouse. The distinct aura of someone who did the walk of shame in a hurry.

I still can’t believe he folded my thong.

“Good morning,” I force out, pretending my face isn’t on fire.

He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t gloat. Just watches me too carefully. Like he’s waiting for me to say something else.

I shift, turning back to Tate. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bud.”

“You’re not staying for breakfast?” Corbin’s tone is maddeningly casual. He’s already pulling out a frying pan, like this is just another morning, like we do this all the time. Like last night didn’t just happen.

“You still love cheese omelets, right?”

Yes.

I do.

But eating breakfast here, with him, with Tate? That’s too much like the past.

“Yes!” Tate pumps a tiny fist in the air. “She eats them every morning! We have salsa, right? Mom says omelets without salsa is an a-bomb-a-nation.”

A small, unwilling laugh catches in my throat.

Corbin’s lips twitch. “We have salsa.”

His icy blue eyes flick to mine. Watching. Waiting.

I need to go.

I clear my throat. “Uh… I’m pretty sure I have a… meeting this morning.” I snap my fingers, like I just remembered some very important, absolutely real obligation. “Yes! A meeting.”

Corbin rolls his eyes. “It can wait ten minutes, Jules.”

Before I can protest, Tate’s big blue eyes widen. He clasps his hands under his chin, pure six-year-old desperation on his face. “Please stay, Mommy. Please.”

My heart squeezes. I exhale slowly. Cave. “Okay.”

“Bud,” Corbin says to our six-year-old son, “why don’t you go upstairs and finish getting ready?”

“Alright!” Tate nods his head. “I’ll be right back.”

I watch my son race up the stairs before turning to his infuriating father. “I should go.”

He shakes his dark head. “No, you should stay.”

“Last night,” I whisper as I move closer. His cologne floats through the air—musky and expensive and clean—and I momentarily forget that I’m annoyed with him for suggesting I stay for breakfast.

“Last night what?” He flashes his dark eyebrows at me as he whisks eggs in a white ceramic bowl. Why is everything he owns white?

“It can’t happen again,” I warn. “I… I didn’t mean to…”

He was working late on the couch when I rang the doorbell. He’d just opened a new bottle of wine. I’d joined him. We started talking. I leaned in…

I can’t remember every second of last night, but I know I wasn’t out of control. I know I wanted him. I still do. And even if I’d had more wine than I should have, Corbin would never have let things happen if I wasn’t fully there with him.

I swallow. “Stay the night,” I finally answer.

Corbin peers over his shoulder, the expression on his face indecipherable. “Stay the night or sleep with me?”

My stomach dips. I hate that he always reads between the lines.

“Both,” I say firmly. “This was a one-time thing. It won’t happen again.”

His lips curve. “Four-time thing, you mean?”

I choke on air. “F-four?”

Corbin lifts an amused brow. “Five, if you count what happened on the couch first.”

Heat floods my face and my fingers curl into my palm as I drag a hand over my eyes. “I should go.”

“You should stay,” he counters, unbothered. “Did you see how happy Tate was when you said you’d have breakfast with us?”

I glance at the staircase, making sure our son is out of earshot before turning to my ex-husband.

“Corbin.” It comes out raw and scratchy. “We can’t do this to him.”

“Do what?” His fingers find my curls, twisting one around his knuckle.

A shudder rolls through me. I didn’t realize how much I missed this. The closeness. The weight of someone else in my space.

But it can’t be him.

“We can’t give him false hope,” I say, barely above a whisper.

Corbin’s thumb drifts along the nape of my neck, sending a shiver all the way down my spine.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Jules,” he mutters.

His eyes bore into mine, pulling me under. I forget how to breathe.

I can do this , I tell myself.

“It’s just breakfast,” Corbin smirks as I involuntarily shift closer.

My hip brushes against the front of his pants, and… oh, God, bad idea. It might kill me. Being this close to him after what happened last night might actually kill me.

“I can do breakfast.” I lift my chin. “Then, I’m out of here.”

His lips are inches from mine when he murmurs, “I forgot how good you look first thing in the morning.”

My stomach flips, and I glance down at my wrinkled blouse. “Even with this mess?”

His gaze darkens. “No.” He shakes his head, voice dropping. “Naked in my bed.”

A sharp pulse beats between my ribs. My throat dries. “I… uh…”

Before I can completely combust, his hand falls away and he turns back to the stove like he didn’t just obliterate my sanity.

I take three steps back. Try to breathe. Try to pretend I’m fine. I’m fine. Totally fine.

The doorbell rings, a welcomed distraction.

“You mind getting that?” Corbin asks.

“Sure,” I click my tongue as I head toward the door, keeping my purse tucked to my side. Maybe I can make a run for it.

Tate hops off the stairs as I pass and hugs my leg before running into the kitchen.

When I open the front door, there’s a short-haired blond in a navy blazer and matching skirt. She looks uptight and stiff. Just like Corbin.

“Hi.” She waves awkwardly. “Is Corbin, uh, in?”

I nod and step out of the way. “Yep.”

The woman slips out of her shoes and hangs her purse on the entryway coat rack. Right next to Tate’s backpack. She’s been here before.

Last night slams into me. Corbin’s hands on my skin. My legs tangled with his. His mouth—

I swallow hard.

She must be Corbin’s new… whatever.

“Is he in the kitchen?” She gives me a forced smile.

I force one back. “Yep.”

My face feels hot. Stupid. Guilty. I had no idea he was seeing someone.

“Who are you?” she asks, frowning.

“Jules!” Corbin’s voice sails from the kitchen. “Who is it?”

“Oh.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “The ex-wife.”

Yep.

I nod, but say nothing.

“I was so nervous you were…” She trails off before leaning in co-conspiratorially.

“We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks, and I thought this thing might not be exclusive when you answered the door.

” Her eyes drift to my messy curls. My wrinkled blouse.

My shoes, slipped on in a hurry. I hate how naked I feel under her stare.

She continues, “He’s very hard to read. He’s so aloof sometimes. Anything else I should know about him?”

She thinks I have insider knowledge. That I’m somehow in control here.

“He’s not big on commitment.” I force a helpless shrug. Corbin hasn’t mentioned he’s seeing anyone. If he had, I never would have gotten into bed with him last night. I know I wouldn't have. Wine or no wine. I feel so incredibly dumb right now.

“But he married you, didn’t he?”

A sharp twinge cuts through me, but I smirk like it’s all so damn funny.

“And then divorced me.” The words sting more than I expect. I pat her shoulder. “I have to get going. See you around… uh, what’s your name?“

“Susan,” she replies with a nervous laugh.

Susan .

“Well,” I click my tongue, “good luck in there.”

And with that, I slip out the front door and hurry to my car.

When I slide into the driver’s seat, something pulls me back. I glance at the house.

Corbin’s standing on the front porch, his hands in his pockets, his expression… unreadable.