Page 4 of Trained In Sin

Saphy

My hands are still shaking when I get home.

I set the wine on my kitchen counter and stare at it like it might explode. Six pounds of perfectly adequate Pinot Grigio that now feels like evidence of a crime I didn't commit. I don’t know how he knew about the business card, but I run into my room and snatch it off the bedside table.

I should throw it away. Right now. Walk to the bin and drop it in without looking at it again.

Instead, I walk back into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine and try to process what just happened.

Sebastian Blackwood. In a shop. Buying wine he admitted he doesn't drink, just to have an excuse to talk to me.

No. To play with me. That's what it felt like. A cat batting at a mouse, seeing how long it would run before giving up.

I take a large sip of wine and close my eyes, but that just makes it worse.

Now I can see him more clearly. The way he looked in the fluorescent lighting, somehow making even that harsh glare work in his favour.

Dark hair perfectly styled despite the end of a workday.

That jawline that belongs on magazine covers, not in dingy shops.

The way his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he reached for the wine.

"Stop it," I say out loud to my empty flat .

But I can't stop. Can't stop thinking about how his grey eyes seemed to see right through me, how his presence made the air feel charged with electricity. He's beautiful in a way that makes smart women stupid. The kind of beautiful that comes with a warning label.

My phone buzzes. Damon.

Hey babe. Working late again. Can’t wait to see you soon. Love you.

I stare at the message, guilt churning in my stomach. There's my boyfriend. Sweet, stable, reliable Damon, working hard to build our future together. And here I am, thinking about another man's shoulders.

No problem. Love you too. I type back, the words feeling hollow.

But that's not fair to Damon. I do love him. We've built a life together, have plans together. He's everything I want in a partner. Kind, considerate, predictable in all the right ways.

I drain my glass and pour another.

And I’m stood here thinking about some creep who makes me feel itchy in my own skin? It makes me feel sick.

My skin felt too tight. My pulse raced. Every nerve ending seemed to wake up and pay attention.

"Chemistry," I mutter. "That's all it is. Basic biological chemistry."

It doesn't mean anything. Plenty of people feel attracted to others while in relationships.

It's what you do about it that matters, and I'm not going to do anything.

I'm not that kind of person. Literally every woman I know has some sort of crush. Whether it’s a celebrity, a character in some new TV show, even hot gazillionaires like Blackwood.

I hold up the business card. Sebastian Blackwood. CEO, Syren Enterprises. A mobile number. An email address. An office location in the financial district.

Such simple information, but it feels dangerous in my hands. Like holding a lit match near petrol.

He's everything I've trained myself to avoid.

Arrogant. The way he spoke to me like he knew my deepest secrets.

Controlling. How he orchestrated our entire conversation, managed my reactions.

Dangerous. Not just in the physical sense, though those rumours Beth mentioned about him being "connected" still make me shiver.

But God, the way he looks at me.

Like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve. Like I'm fascinating instead of frustratingly ordinary. Like he sees through all my careful propriety to something underneath that even I don't recognise.

I think about how he looked at me in that store, slow, deliberate, cataloguing. Not the crude assessment some men make, checking for attractiveness. This was deeper. Like he was reading my soul through my body language.

"I see that you're terrified of me but haven't left yet."

Why didn't I leave? The moment I saw him, every instinct screamed at me to run.

To abandon the wine and flee before he could speak to me again.

But I stood there. Engaged with him. Let him move closer and closer until I could smell his cologne, something expensive and masculine that made my mouth water. My body really is a traitorous bitch .

I wanted to know what he'd say. Because despite everything, his arrogance and outright audacity, part of me was excited to see him again.

What kind of person does that make me?

My phone rings. Beth.

"Did you get the wine?" she asks without preamble.

"Yes." My voice sounds strange, too high.

"What's wrong? You sound weird."

I consider lying, but Beth knows me too well. "I ran into someone at the shop. That guy from Pulse, Sebastian Blackwood."

"Are you kidding me? So what, is he stalking you now?"

"I don't think he was stalking me. It seemed like an actual coincidence."

"What did he want?"

"To talk. To make me uncomfortable. To... I don't know. Play some kind of game where he pretends to understand me."

"Saphy." Beth's voice carries that tone she uses when she thinks I'm being stupid. "Please tell me you told him to fuck off."

"More or less."

"But?"

I look at the business card still in my hand. "But nothing. I left. End of story."

"You're lying. What aren't you telling me? "

"I kept his card from the other night.”

"Throw it away. Right now. While I'm on the phone."

I walk to the bin, holding the card over it. Such a simple action. Open my fingers, let it fall, forget this ever happened.

I can't do it.

"Saphy? Did you throw it away?"

"I... I need to go. Damon's calling." The lie comes easily, which should worry me more than it does.

"We're talking about this tomorrow," Beth warns before hanging up.

I return to the sofa, card still in hand, and try to understand what's wrong with me. I have a good life. A good man. A good job. Everything I'm supposed to want.

So why do I have a teenage crush on some random nightclub owner?

The worst part is, he knew it too. Saw right through my careful facade to the dissatisfaction underneath. Called out my fashion sense, my wine choice, my entire life in a few casual observations.

I think about Sebastian in that shop, the predatory grace of his movements, the way his presence seemed to fill the entire aisle.

He's magnetic in a way that has nothing to do with his obvious wealth or stunning looks.

It's something deeper, darker. An intensity that promises to burn everything it touches.

"It's just lust," I tell myself firmly. "Physical attraction. It means nothing. "

And it doesn't. It can't. Because I'm not the kind of woman who cheats. I'm not the kind of woman who throws away three years with a good man, because some handsome man flirted with her in a shop.

I'm not that kind of woman.