Chapter 4
four
. . .
Jake
“My daughter.” Ryan’s words land like a punch to the sternum.
Natalie.
In our conference room. Sitting right there. Looking at me with the same perfect, unmistakable shock I’m definitely failing to hide. I school my face into professional neutrality—or at least the closest approximation I can manage when my nervous system is busy staging a coup.
I slept with Ryan’s daughter. Fuck me.
The air in the room shifts. It’s thinner, tighter, like someone dialed the oxygen down without warning. I try to breathe normally, but every inhale scratches against the memory of her. The soft, warm slide of her body under my hands.
Shaking her hand just now. Jesus. Touching her again felt like plugging myself back into a current I never wanted to walk away from.
She’s still soft. Still warm. Still very much the woman my brain keeps replaying in dark, inconvenient hours.
And now she’s three feet away pretending none of that ever happened. Because what else can we do?
“If everything looks good,” her father says, “we just need your signature here, here, and here.”
Natalie picks up the pen, her hand steady. Her signature is deliberate, neat, and confident. Everything about her is confident, except for that half-second when our eyes met and she went still, like she couldn’t decide whether to bolt or throw the table at me.
“Congratulations,” Ryan says, pulling her up into a hug that makes something in my chest twist. Pride looks good on him.
“Thank you, Dad.”
I stand with everyone else, keeping my breathing even. I turn to Victoria first, fearing my expression might betray me if I face Natalie too quickly.
“Congratulations,” I say to Victoria, shaking her hand. “Great deal.”
“Thanks for the assist,” she says before stepping away to answer a buzzing phone.
And then there’s only one hand left to shake.
Her hand is small in mine. I force myself to shut everything down. Every instinct. Every memory. Every piece of me that remembers the way she whispered my name against my mouth that night.
“Congratulations, Ms. Cruz,” I say as smooth and controlled as I can. Like we haven’t already been tangled together. “I’m sure your show is going to be great.”
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
We’re still standing too close when Ryan’s phone rings. He checks the screen, his face shifting back into his high-powered-lawyer look.
“I have to take this,” he says. “Victoria, can I steal you for a second? You may want to listen in.”
“Of course,” she says, already stepping out with him.
The door closes behind them and suddenly it’s just the two of us. Natalie quickly crosses her arms like she’s bracing herself for impact.
“Small world,” she says, her voice a little higher, a little tighter.
“Indeed.”
Her head lowers as she exhales. “Of all the law firms in Los Angeles.”
“I didn’t know,” I say immediately. Too quickly, probably, but I need it out there. “I swear, I had no idea Ryan had a daughter named Natalie. You go by Cruz—”
“I know.” She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “There’s no way you would’ve known. Nobody knows.”
“Why?”
Before the question can land, her knees buckle. Not a sway. Not a slight wobble. Her legs give out completely.
I move on pure instinct. My arm shoots out and catches her around the waist before she can hit the floor, pulling her against my chest. She’s light in my arms, too light, and her skin is cool and clammy under my palm.
“Whoa. Hey.” I keep my voice low, steady, even though my heart is slamming against my ribs. “I’ve got you.”
Her hand grips my forearm, fingers digging in like she’s trying to anchor herself. Her breathing is shallow and fast.
“I’m fine,” she says, her voice—thin, shaky—contradicting her.
“You’re not.” I guide her carefully back into the chair, keeping one hand on her elbow, feeling the slight tremor running through her body. “Just sit. Breathe.”
She nods, eyes squeezed shut, and I crouch beside her, my hand still steadying her arm. My thumb brushes against the inside of her wrist without thinking, finding her pulse. It’s fast but steady.
“When’s the last time you ate?” I ask.
“I don’t know. This morning.” She winces. “Toast.”
“Toast,” I repeat. “That’s it?”
“I was too nervous to eat.”
Before I can push further, Ryan reappears in the doorway, phone still in hand. “Everything okay?”
“I stood up too fast,” Natalie says. “I just need a minute.”
Ryan’s beside her in an instant. “Are you sure? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine, Dad. I swear. Just dizzy.”
Ryan’s jaw tightens. “I’m calling 911.”
“No.” She sits straighter, eyes wide. “Don’t. I’m okay. I just need to sit for a second.”
“Natalie—”
“Dad, I promise. I probably just need to eat something.”
He doesn’t look convinced. Neither am I.
“There’s a minute clinic across the street,” I say. “She could get a quick check, in and out.”
Ryan hesitates. I can see the tug-of-war happening behind his eyes.
“I have a client in fifteen minutes,” he mutters.
“I’ll take her,” I say immediately.
Natalie opens her mouth, either to argue or tell me to mind my own business, but Ryan cuts her off.
“Clinic or 911. Your choice.”
She sighs, defeated. “Clinic.”
Ryan helps her up. I stay close, just in case she wobbles again. She steadies, but she’s still pale.
Victoria reappears in the doorway, phone pressed to her ear. She covers the mic. “Emergency with another client. I have to run. You good?”
“I’m good,” Natalie says.
“Text me later,” Victoria says, before continuing her call.
Ryan cups Natalie’s face with both hands, full dad mode. “If they tell you to go to the hospital, you go. No arguments.”
“No arguments,” she echoes softly.
He kisses her forehead and steps back.
I offer her my arm and she hesitates for half a heartbeat but then she takes it.
Her fingers curl around my elbow, soft and warm and familiar in a way that makes my stomach clench.
We walk out of the conference room together and I keep my expression professional and not like I’m escorting the woman I slept with out of her father’s law firm.
The elevator ride is quiet. She leans back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing slow. I don’t touch her. Don’t talk. I just stay close in case she needs me.
Outside, the sunlight is too bright. She lifts a hand to shield her eyes, and I guide her across the street to the clinic.
“Hi,” I say to the receptionist. “She’s not feeling well. Light-headed. Almost fainted.”
“Have her fill these out,” the woman says, handing over a clipboard.
I take it and hand it to Natalie as she sinks into the nearest seat. I sit beside her so I’m close enough to help, far enough not to crowd her. She fills out her name, birthday and insurance info.
“You don’t have to stay,” she murmurs. “I can handle it from here.”
“I’ll stay.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t argue.
When she’s completed the forms, I return them and we wait. Five minutes, ten. A cooking show plays on the TV mounted in the corner and a chef aggressively whisks something in a copper bowl. The waiting room hums with low conversation, a kid coughing in the corner, and the receptionist typing.
I glance at Natalie from the corner of my eye. She’s still pale, her breathing a little too careful, like she’s concentrating on each inhale. Her hands are folded in her lap, fingers laced tight.
My dad died of a heart attack at fifty-eight years old. He collapsed in his office on a Tuesday afternoon. I was in my second year at the firm, and at work reviewing a contract when my mom called to let me know. By the time I made it to Connecticut, he was gone.
I shake the thought away, but it clings. Natalie’s young and healthy. This is probably nothing. But what if it’s not nothing?
I want to reach over, take her hand, but before I can, a nurse steps into the doorway. “Natalie?”
We both stand. Natalie steadies herself, and I follow her down the hall into a small exam room. She sits on the paper-covered table, and I hover near the doorway.
“I can wait outside,” I say. “If you want privacy.”
She looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she shakes her head. “Stay,” she says quietly. “Please.”
The invitation settles me somehow. She’s letting me in, just a crack, and I’m not about to waste it. “Okay,” I say, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. I lean against the wall, close enough to be there if she needs me, far enough to give her space.
The nurse checks her vitals and lets her know the doctor will be right in. The silence stretches, that awkward kind that’s too loud for such a small room. Finally, there’s a knock and a woman in a white coat walks in.
“Hi, Natalie. I’m Dr. Patel. I hear you had a dizzy spell?”
“Yeah,” Natalie says. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Let’s just make sure.” Dr. Patel reviews her notes. “Start from the beginning.”
Natalie explains waking up nauseous, her nerves, the meeting, and standing up and feeling like the room shifted.
Dr. Patel nods, listening carefully. “Any other symptoms? Fatigue? Headaches?”
“I’ve been tired,” Natalie says. “But I’ve also been stressed. Big week.”
“Understandable.” Another note. “Okay, I want to run a few tests. Standard bloodwork, urine sample. Just to rule things out.”
Natalie nods. “Okay.”
The nurse returns with supplies, and I step into the hallway, giving her privacy. When they let me back in, Natalie’s perched on the table again, a bandage on her arm.
“They said about fifteen minutes,” she says softly.
I nod, then return to my vigil against the wall.