“Please tell me the sex was at least good, though? If he ends up being a cheating jackass, I want you to have gotten a few good orgasms out of it. I spent the last hour watching a cartoon pig solve mysteries by learning to spell . . . I need adult details.”
I glanced at my reflection again. My chin was a little red from his stubble. I flexed my hand—the outer part of my palm hurt from when I’d smacked it into the wooden bedside table when Jake had done something with his tongue that set me on fire. “I’m not giving you a play-by-play while your kids watch cartoons ten feet away. But yes, it was good.” Great. Amazing. Holy hell.
Felicia sighed. “I like this new version of you, Turner. The confident and sex-crazed version.”
I rolled my eyes, though I kind of liked this version, too. I wondered what would happen in two days when this experiment ended. It was hard to imagine starting over again and trying to flirt with another bartender. “Okay, thanks for talking me down, Fel.”
“Go home and take a nap since you were up all night with Mr. Consultant-the-Wonder-Cock.”
“Jesus, Fel. Aren’t your kids right there?”
“You don’t seem to understand what I mean when I say they’re in a Netflix trance. The house could burn down around them and they wouldn’t notice.”
Following Felicia’s pep talk, I took a quick shower and snuck out of the room, closing the door softly, before almost sprinting to the elevators.
Walk of shame after sleeping with a married man. Seems a fitting addition to the list. Check.
* * *
I tried napping but felt jittery all morning. I paced my small living room, trying to find one thing to focus on, but my head swirled with everything going on.
My job’s in jeopardy.
I’m sleeping with the married consultant hired to make that decision.
Oh, and Davis is back and who knows what he’s planning to do.
It was after noon when I fell onto my couch with an exasperated sigh and stared at my ceiling. I’d woken up feeling like I had things in my grasp, and after learning Jake was married, I was questioning everything again. My phone buzzed, and I glanced at it. Jake had texted a few times that morning, but I hadn’t replied, and I considered not responding to any future messages. I looked at my phone again, though. Ignoring it was what old Naya would do, so I thought about the list and mentally added Demand answers. This time, I opened his message.
Jake: I wish you were here. Want to crash the bridal party photos?
Naya: How could you not tell me you’re married?
The dots indicating he was typing moved and then stopped, started again and then disappeared. I waited an entire two minutes, which felt like an eternity, watching the dots bounce and disappear.
Jake: I’m sorry. Will you let me explain?
Naya: Why should I?
Jake: You probably shouldn’t, but will you give me a chance anyway?
I’d risen to my feet, pacing as I thought of a response. I didn’t want to let him explain. I’d made promises to myself about not putting up with liars, about cutting manipulators out of my life. I hadn’t expected Jake to fall into either of those categories, but it looked like he might fall into both.
Jake: You don’t have to forgive me. I just want to apologize in person for hurting you.
I bit my lower lip, resolve chipping away.
Twenty-one
I opened the door to Jake in his tux. His jaw was smooth, though his expression was frantic.
“I’m sorry.” The words spilled out and brought my attention back to the moment. “I’m married. But only legally. We’ve been separated for over a year, I swear.”
I avoided eye contact with him, glancing at my feet instead. It wasn’t fine. I stepped aside to let him in—seeing him in person was probably a mistake, because my body still reacted to him as if nothing had changed. “I overheard you talking in the hall this morning.”
“Shit.” He reached for my hand, his fingers grazing my wrist, and I recoiled. His shoulders slumped a little, his eyes wide. “Ten minutes. Please, let me at least explain.”
I didn’t want to care about his explanation, but I couldn’t shake how he’d made me feel the last few days. “Fine. Ten minutes,” I said with a tilt of my head, inviting him in.
Pushover.
I searched for similarities to Davis, scrutinizing the cut of his jaw and the shift of his eyes as he spoke, looking for tells that he was lying, looking for evidence he wasn’t worth it.
“We were married for six years, and then I found out she was having an affair with our neighbor.” Jake glanced away. “Her family . . . her parents are like the Cleavers and really conservative. She begged me to keep the real reason for our split from them. I didn’t do it for her, but they would have been hurt by the truth, mortified, and I didn’t want to do that to them. They’d become my family, too.” His voice dipped low, and I thought I saw a flash of something across his face. Bitterness? Anger? Loss?