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Me: You shouldn’t have kissed me.

Cash: I know, Jules. And I’m sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am that I put you in this position. I never wanted to hurt you.

Me: It’s too fucking late for that.

I power off my cell and let my despair bathe Lesley’s pillow. Our texts haunt me for what seems like hours, making sleep an elusive bitch. He’s not just the man I’m in love with—he’s also my boss. The man I’ll have to face at work on Monday morning. Somehow, I have to make this right. At the very least, we need to go back to the way things were, back when we kept an appropriate amount of distance between us.

The kind of distance that doesn’t involve spending time outside of work. The kind that doesn’t involve kissing or late-night phone calls that end with me crying out his name as I come.

Fingering my silent phone, I consider texting him again to tell him I’m sorry, too. That I don’t blame him, despite how much he’s hurt me. Because we’re both to blame for this mess, and for both our sakes, we have to find a way out of it, through it, around it.

Clearly, texting isn’t going to help—if anything, it’s only gotten us into more trouble. But I can’t imagine having this conversation at work either. Hoping to set things right with him tomorrow at the market, face to face, I eventually fall asleep.

But the following morning, he never shows.

24. Lose Control - Cash

I’m turning into a bitter man. I hate everything.

The sight of Monica. The sight of Jules. Fuck, the sight of myself in the mirror. I’ve made such a fucking mess of my life. Jules has barely said two words outside of what is necessary to do her job, and I can tell how torn up she is over us too.

All week, I’ve been preoccupied with the single most important question she asked.

Why don’t I just leave my wife.

Sounds simple. At this point, with the way our marriage has deteriorated into nothing—no, less than nothing—drawing up divorce papers should be a no-brainer. By the time Saturday rolls around, I’m giving it serious thought. In fact, I’ve even written a pro and con list. The con portion is a bit longer.

There’s the publicity nightmare a divorce will cause the company.

The fallout with our families.

And the fact that I’ll be divorced at thirty.

Not to mention the inevitable tug-of-war in the courtroom, because no way will Monica allow me to walk away without taking a chunk of my soul first. Not unless the private investigator I hired finds evidence of her affair to use as a counter-attack.

The pro part of this list is short and simple, and perhaps the most important of all.

I’m in love with Jules.

The day matches my mood—cloudy with the threat of a storm. The sun wants to peek through the cover, but more clouds keep rolling in. As I approach Pike Place, I let out a shaky breath. Today is the day I’m going to put everything out there, all the fucked-up cards laid out bare on the table. If she loves me, which I think she does, then I need to know for sure. She’s already got my heart, and I need to know I have hers as well before I rip apart my world.

Two hours later, after a lot of thinking and loitering in every corner of the market, it’s clear Jules isn’t going to show up today. As I step onto the sidewalk, rain falls in a steady shower, chilly drops hitting my warm skin. I head in the direction of her apartment, consequences be damned. And yes, I do know where she lives. I know she likes her tea with cream and enough sugar to bring on a cavity. I know she’s subtle in style, favoring blacks and whites and grays with splashes of color that draw attention. She dresses modestly but manages to radiate the sexiest vibes ever.

I’m positive she has no idea how she attracts the eyes of men.

Mine haven’t strayed from her since I met her.

Soaked by the time I reach her building, I climb the stairs two at a time. Not because of the rain dousing me from head to toe, but I’m that desperate to see her. I rap on her door with too much fervor, my emotions rushing through my veins. Footsteps sound seconds before she pulls the door open. Jesus, she looks like she just fell out of bed. Her blond locks riot around her face in sexy disarray, and I can’t decide if I want to tangle my fingers in them, or tug on them.

“You weren’t at the market.” The words come out harsher than I mean them to, with the knife’s edge of accusation.

Never one to back down, let alone take my shit, Jules launches my frustration right back at me in the fire of her gaze. “You weren’t there last week, so I guess we’re even.”

“Are we keeping score now?” Unable to help myself, I take a step forward until she opens the door wider. “Let me in, Jules.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”