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TRENT

“ W here are you supposed to be again?”

I glance at my cousin and shrug. “The Middle East.” That’s as much as I’m able to tell him. For the record, I didn’t lie to Sara.

I really did go to Pakistan.

But my team’s hostage rescue took less than ten days from insertion to extraction. Since then, I’ve been holed up in Kenosha, Wisconsin, drinking myself into a stupor alongside the cousin who’s more like a brother.

I pick up my beer and take a few gulps. It’s warm and a little bit flat, which feels like the best I deserve at the moment. “How was work?”

“Fine.”

“Cool.”

“Yep.”

That’s one of the reasons I came here. Beck isn’t one for heartfelt emotional banter. He runs a private security firm after cutting his teeth in the Navy like me. His husband, Cam, is more likely to press me for details, but right now it’s just Beck and me getting drunk in this dim little bar .

I haven’t stopped hating myself since I got here. Since before that, to be honest. Way before Pakistan, or even before I busted my ass to become a SEAL.

I miss Sara so much that my chest aches like somebody’s standing on it while whacking me in the balls with the butt of a rifle. I’ve experienced that, so I know.

That feels like a tickle compared to how I feel now.

On the barstool beside me, Beck clears his throat. “How long are you staying?”

I sigh. He was bound to ask that eventually.

“Fuck, I don’t know.” Dragging a hand down my face, I stare down at my beer. “My commander granted me ten days of emergency leave.”

That’s on top of what I’d already scheduled for wedding stuff. I’m aware that I’m risking my career, but it’s tough to summon the energy to care.

Beck sips his beer. “That the longest you’ve been away from the teams?”

“Yep.” By a long shot.

“Damn.”

“Yeah.” There’s probably a reason he’s asking. “Is Cam getting sick of me crashing on your couch?”

“Nah, man. You’re cool.” He scratches a dried fleck of food on the edge of his glass. “It’s nice having you here. The kids dig you.”

Beck and his husband adopted three siblings from foster care a few years back. Sadie is sixteen, Lola eleven, and Jack just turned six. They’ve been through a lot and they’re lucky as hell to have Beck and Cam as their dads. “They’re cool kids,” I tell Beck. “My parents would love them.”

Beck gives me a look but doesn’t respond.

“My mom would,” I amend.

“Okay.”

We don’t discuss what happened. That’s kinda our rule. My parents raised Beck from the time he was four, taking him in when his parents were killed in a car crash. The night before Beck left for boot camp, he mustered the courage to come out to my parents.

Let’s just say it didn’t go great.

Beck clears his throat now, shaking me back from that horrible memory. “Cam keeps asking about the wedding,” he says. “I didn’t tell him you called it off.”

“Really?” Maybe Beck’s hoping I’ll change my mind.

“Cam still thinks we’re all flying to Portland to watch you get hitched.” He takes a sip of his beer. “We’re tacking it on to our trip to Seattle to see Cam’s folks. Sadie wants to be baptized in the same church he was.”

Shit, that’s so sweet. “Same one where you guys got married?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s such a cool kid.”

“Yep.” Pride fills his eyes as he picks up his beer. “Thanks for taking them to the game last night.”

“No sweat.” I always imagined myself as a dad who’d take his own kids to games. “Sorry the breakfast I fixed them made Jack puke.”

“You didn’t know he can’t have dairy.” Beck takes a sip of his drink. “I’m guessing that new bike you bought him made up for it.”

“The girls will get theirs tonight.” I smile at the thought of how giddy they got when I told them. “We had to special order the purple ones they wanted.”

“You’re a good uncle.” Beck’s brow furrows. “Second cousin? Whatever the fuck you are to them.”

“Thanks.” It’s the least I can do after the bullshit my parents pulled.

We lapse into silence, which I know I should welcome. God knows I don’t want to talk about Sara.

But I can’t keep my stupid mouth shut for some reason. “My mom doesn’t know yet. ”

“That you called off the wedding?” Beck frowns. “No shit.”

“None whatsoever.” I am totally screwed. “Didn’t have a chance to tell her before we went wheels up.”

My cousin scoffs. “Bullshit.”

“What?”

“You’re being a pussy.” He’s not wrong.

“Fuck off.” I say it with love, but Beck doesn’t back down.

“Come on, bro.” For a man of few words, he’s saved up a handful for me. “I’ve been watching you mope like a lovesick bitch since you got here. You still love this girl, right?”

I can’t answer that question. Not without inviting ten more.

“It’s fucking obvious,” he mutters. “You stared at her picture for fucking hours last night.”

That might be a slight exaggeration. “It’s complicated.”

“How?”

I was afraid he might ask that. “Sara was raised a certain way.” Same way I was, more or less. “We’ve talked about our dreams since we were fucking teenagers. I know what she wants, and I can’t give it to her.”

Please let it drop.

Please let it drop.

Please let it ? —

“Dumbshit.” Beck shakes his head, disgusted with me. “Women fucking love it when you decide for them what they want without giving them a chance to weigh in.”

Anger rolls through me, but not at my cousin. Beck isn’t wrong. It’s a damn lucky guess, since I’ve shared almost zilch about how I wound up crashing on his couch instead of counting pew bows.

I still don’t know what a fucking pew bow is.

But if Beck isn’t wrong, that means I might be. I’m not ready to face that.

To face any of my demons.

“Like you know what women want,” I mutter instead .

“I know relationships,” he claps back, waving to the bartender for another round. “Been married to Cam since before you even proposed to Sara.”

Like hearing his name was a cue, Cam strides in through the side door. He’s decked out in body armor under his shirt and there’s a Glock 22 strapped to the holster on his chest. He spots Beck on his barstool and grins like it’s fucking Christmas.

My chest squeezes tight as he makes his way toward us. “Hey.” He greets Beck with a fist bump, and me with a friendly nod. “You guys ordering another round?”

Beck nods and signals the barkeep. “How’d the job go?”

I tune out my cousin and his husband as they talk about private security shit. Most of their work involves government contracts and they speak in code words that mostly go over my head.

Grabbing my phone, I flip to my texts in case Sara decided to reach out. She didn’t.

But there’s a text from her mother that turns my blood to tar.

We’re signing the honeymoon package over to Sara. I know it was a gift for you both, but if you’re not getting married, we want her to be able to trade it for a trip of her own.

Fuck me.

What her mom doesn’t know—and I’ll never tell her—is that Holyfield Properties lets jilted brides trade in their honeymoon credits to visit their private, erotic resort. I know this, since Sara’s good friends both went there.

According to Sara, they enjoyed their time a lot.

A whole lot.

Shit.

Sara wouldn’t do that, right?

I fire off a text to Camille.

Please tell me you’re not letting Sara go to the sex resort.

I’m not expecting a reply right away, so I’m surprised by the speed of her response.

Sara is a grown-ass woman, Trent. I don’t LET her do anything.

That’s not a no, and my blood starts to simmer. I text Camille’s boyfriend instead. I’ve developed an odd sort of friendship with the reclusive billionaire in the months since Sara introduced me to Ashton Holyfield. This seems like a valid reason to call in a favor.

Hey, man. Any chance you can tell me if Sara registered to go to one of your Jilted Brides resorts?

Ash’s response takes a few minutes to come through. It’s formal and terse, just like the man himself.

My deepest apologies, but privacy concerns preclude me from sharing information about past, present, or potential guests at any of my properties. I hope you understand.

Fuck. Not that I expected him to tell me, but the absence of shock in their responses says enough. Nobody’s saying what I hoped they would.

Sara? Are you kidding? Of course not!

“Hey, guys?” I jump off my barstool, earning twin looks of surprise from the guys. “I’ve gotta go take care of something. See you at your place?”

My cousin frowns as he studies my face. “Everything okay?”

“No.” Might as well be honest. “But I’m working on it.”

I don’t give them a chance to argue or stop me. I’m out the door and jogging down the sidewalk, feeling my palms start to sweat. Ten minutes later, I’m hunched at the desk in Beck and Cam’s guest room, my laptop in front of me as I punch in a sequence of code.

There’s an upside to being my SEAL team’s tech expert. There aren’t many websites or apps I can’t hack. Not even the reservation system for an exclusive fantasy resort meant only for women whose dream weddings didn’t take place.

There.

Right there in bold black letters, I spot Sara’s name. Below that, a list of the options she’s chosen.

My stomach churns as I read her selections.

Sexy foot massage.

Face sitting.

Anal play.

I swallow a fierce wave of shame. Not for Sara, for me .

Goddammit.

This is my fault.

I never in a million years thought she’d do it. When she told me about Eve and Camille having fun at some spicy resort, her voice dripped with scandal.

“Can you believe it?” she’d asked. “They just—had sex with people they don’t even know. Not just men, either.”

I managed to nod and look shocked, since that’s what she seemed to expect. I also took care not to sex shame her friends.

“I guess everyone has their own tastes.”

Laughing, she threw her arms around me. “Good thing you’re my taste.” She sighed out a warm breath against my skin. “Only you, Trent James. You’re all I want forever and ever.”

But that isn’t true anymore. She doesn’t want me; she wants someone named Logan Wilder easing his fingers inside her. That name’s gotta be made up, right ?