Page 20 of The Boss (Straight Men #2)

Reconciliation with Chantelle was swift. That was the thing about her—she never let emotions get in the way of her goals. No sulking, no passive-aggressive digs, no waiting for me to grovel. Honestly, I was surprised we even argued at all, though I suppose I had it coming.

That evening when I arrived at her place, there were no tearful accusations, no dramatic silences, icy stares, or anything unproductive like that. Instead, she opened the door with an arched brow, arms folded over her silk blouse.

“You’re on probation, Steele,” she said, her voice smooth as glass. “Behave.”

I could have fed her some excuse—finding a lawyer for Chris’s case, a late-night conference call, a drink that turned into three—but she wouldn’t have believed me, and she wouldn’t have cared. Chantelle wasn’t interested in explanations. She was interested in results. And the result she wanted was me standing beside her at our wedding, in the perfect tuxedo, in the perfect venue, with the perfect guest list looking on.

She knew there was nothing to be gained from dragging out an argument, so she let it go. She was good at that—compartmentalizing, filing things away, refocusing on the bigger picture. Not dealing with emotions—only the outcomes.

So, I kissed her cheek and murmured, “I guess I deserve that.”

She hummed, letting me into her apartment. And just like that, the matter was closed.

* * *

Later that night, as we lay in bed together, I watched the soft rise and fall of her breath. Her bedroom was dark, still. The only sound was the distant hum of the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She curled against me, her leg draped over mine, her breathing already slowing into sleep’s steady rhythm. The sex had been… fine. That was the problem, wasn’t it? There was nothing wrong. No awkwardness. No tension. She’d responded as she always did—soft sighs, appreciative murmurs, the gentle roll of her hips meeting mine in a practiced, predictable flow. Nothing out of place. Nothing unexpected. And yet, the whole thing felt off.

Not because she had changed. Because I had.

I used to think sex with Chantelle was as good as it got—polished, effortless, the perfect blend of control and refinement. But now, lying there in the dark, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was missing something. Not just urgency. Not just passion. My body knew the difference now. My skin knew the difference.

I exhaled, rubbing a hand down my face. This wasn’t about Chris. Couldn’t be. It was about me. Maybe I was overthinking things. Maybe I was just exhausted. Maybe I just needed to let this feeling pass.

Beside me, Chantelle stirred, her fingers ghosting over my chest. I covered her hand with mine, staring at the ceiling. This was the life I’d chosen. This was the future I was building.

So why did it feel like I was still waiting for something?