"You deleted him?" Kaitlyn whispered, scandalized, as if the thrum of bass and beer-soaked conversation around us would somehow eavesdrop on her gossip. She leaned in over the worn wood of the bar table like she was sharing state secrets.

"What else was I supposed to do?" I muttered, lifting the straw of my daiquiri to my lips. The sweetness did little to wash away the taste of shame sitting thick on my tongue.

"I can tell you what not to do." Alex chimed in, arms folded over her chest. "Deleting him was a stupid idea. He's literally the father of your new employee. You've just guaranteed maximum awkwardness every time he drops her off."

"The father of an employee?" Kaitlyn's voice pitched up with interest. "Well, that makes it so much better." She took a sip of her drink, shoulders bouncing with delight. Her head swayed side to side, like this was just the latest drama in her favorite show.

Kaitlyn. Alex's on-again-off-again chaos incarnate. She was the kind of person who posted cryptic captions and deleted them by noon. Indecisive. No filter. Not the ideal confidante. But between the drinks and my ongoing spiral, the secret had spilled out of me like a leaky faucet I hadn't even tried to stop it.

"Okay, but how exactly did the conversation end?" Kaitlyn asked, nudging her empty glass to the side and holding out her hand expectantly. "Let me see."

I groaned, already regretting this, but dug through my purse and unlocked my phone, placing it in her palm like it weighed a thousand pounds.

"Jackson, huh? Nice name choice," she read with a grin, scrolling. "And then... wait. You didn't respond? You just deleted him?"

"Yup." I sucked the last of my daiquiri with a loud, empty slurp of defeat.

"I'm getting another round." Alex stood with a sigh, leaning over to press a quick kiss to Kaitlyn's forehead before disappearing into the crowd.

"He's hot, though." Kaitlyn's nose crinkled as she squinted at the screen. "Like, actually hot. I think he was flirting with you."

"I think he was probably trying to politely address the issue."

"No, babe. He was down. Like—DTF down." She winked like she was imparting some sort of profound truth. "If I found out someone wrote erotica about me? If I were single?" She raised her hand as if to swear under oath. "I'd see if the author wanted a ride on the real thing."

I choked on air. "I am not his type."

"Why not? You're hot. He's hot. Hot people usually fuck." She shrugged just as Alex returned, a waiter trailing behind her with three new drinks.

"Alex, tell her how hot she is," Kaitlyn said, nudging her again.

"Ava already knows I think she's hot." Alex said without missing a beat, her gaze flicking from Kaitlyn to me, then back again.

"This is a table full of bisexuals. I think that makes our opinion law. So I repeat: go. fuck. the hot. daddy."

"I'm not going to fuck the hot daddy." I dragged the new glass toward me.

"Why not? He already said he's down." Kaitlyn grinned, setting the phone in front of me again, screen lit with open DMs.

A: DTF

J: Your place or mine?

I choked—actually choked this time. Liquid burned down the wrong pipe as I coughed, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and horror.

"No... no. Kaitlyn, what did you do?" My hand shot forward, snatching the phone like I could somehow undo her chaos with sheer will.

Yup. Still there. He'd responded. That was real.

"Oh my god. He's going to think I'm some sort of unhinged fangirl." I buried my face in my hands. "Which, okay—maybe I am. But I didn't want him to know that."

Alex blinked at the screen, then at Kaitlyn. "Seriously, Kate? That's borderline harassment."

"Relax," Kaitlyn said, smug as ever. "He just sent an Uber for her."

"What?" Alex stood, eyebrows arching. "Right now? Are you sure? It's 12:30 in the morning. This is a booty call. Ava doesn't do booty calls. You don't do booty calls do you?"

"I don't." I slid my purse strap over my shoulder, heart thudding like a drum in my ears. "But maybe it's time I tried."

"That's the spirit!" Kaitlyn cheered, lifting her glass.

And just like that, I was on my way to potentially commit the worst decision of my adult life. Or the best one. Maybe both.

***

This place was huge. Not mafia-rich, not CEO-penthouse-rich. This was Midwestern rich—the kind that looked inherited, quiet, and generational. The kind of rich that didn't scream with gold accents or sleek marble, but whispered it through space and privacy.

A long, curving driveway snaked past manicured hedges and towering trees, shielding the house from the street like it was something sacred. The lawn stretched wide and green, too big, too perfect. If I tried to reach the neighbor's place, I'd need hiking gear—or maybe a golf cart. And the fence dividing the properties was tall enough to make me reconsider my cardio habits.

The house itself had a deep, wraparound porch and looked to be three stories high, with a four-car garage casually attached. What the hell did this man do? Because in this economy, this looked like wizardry.

I was suddenly glad Kate had chosen his place. My one-bedroom apartment would've felt like a shoebox compared to this. Probably would've embarrassed me further, if that was even possible at this point.

My heels clicked on the stone path, dulled to a whisper as I stepped onto the wooden porch. I smoothed the hem of my dress, gave my makeup a quick check with my fingertip beneath each eye, and rang the bell after a hesitant knock.

My dress wasn't the sexiest choice for a late-night hookup, but at least my bra and underwear matched. That had to count for something.

The door opened—and there he was. White button-up, sleeves still cuffed, black tie around his collar. Black slacks and polished shoes like he'd just walked out of a boardroom, never mind that it was nearly one in the morning. His cologne hit me immediately—dark, spicy, with something leathery beneath it. 

He leaned one hand on the frame, the other gripping the door.

I could feel my mouth salivate. I swallowed quickly, hoping it wasn't obvious.

Get a grip. You're twenty-three. You've seen attractive men before. He just opened a door. That's literally all he did. The bar is so low.

"Ava," he said, voice low and warm, with just enough tease to make my stomach flip. "Should I be worried now that you have my address?"

Shit. He did think I was a stalker.

"I—no—I'm not a—I just..." My face burned.

"I'm joking." He smiled, and the corner of his mouth tilted just enough to wreck me a little more. He stepped aside and tilted his head toward the entryway.

The house was just as stunning inside. A massive staircase curved up to the second floor. Ceilings stretched impossibly high. Arched doorways led into rooms that looked like they each had their own square footage stats. The wood beneath my feet was dark and old and probably more valuable than my car.

"Malaya's at her grandparents for a few days," he said, shutting the door behind me. "So I can give you the tour, if you'd like. Or..." He looked at me. "We could cut to the chase. I can show you the bedroom."

"Bedroom." The word left my mouth embarrassingly fast.

He blinked, amused, but said nothing. Just raised a brow and began unfastening the buttons on his cuffs.

Oh.

With slow and practiced ease, he rolled up his sleeves as he walked toward the stairs. I followed, my hand drifting along the polished railing, eyes shamelessly on his forearms—those perfect, defined forearms like he'd been cast as some sexy professor or morally-gray boss in a forbidden office romance. And I was definitely following him like I was about to be punished in the best way possible.

I shook my head, trying to push the images from my mind. I needed to be here. Now. Not with some figment of my imagination.

The bedroom was beautiful—immaculate even—but sterile in a way that unsettled me. It didn't match the rest of the house's worn-in charm. No photos. No mess. No softness. Just sleek, monochrome modernism. Black silk sheets stretched across the king bed. Abstract black-and-white art hovered above a leather headboard, cold and impersonal.

It looked staged.

"I think I should clarify some things," I said, fingers toying with the strap of my purse before I placed it gently on the bedside table. 

"Ava," he said softly, stepping in. "We don't have to talk about it. Not unless you want to." His hand reached up, brushing my cheek, then sweeping a strand of hair behind my ear with a delicate touch. "Just tell me what you want from me—and I'll give it to you."

He meant sexually? Of course he did. This was a hookup, not a confession. I needed to remember that. He wasn't my character. He wasn't the man I wrote into existence—the man who would destroy for the woman he loved, who kissed her like she was holy, who never faltered.

And still, my breath caught as his hands traced down my sides. A firm grip caught beneath my thighs, lifting me without warning. I gasped as instinct took over, my legs wrapping around his waist, my dress hitched and bunched between us.

"I've never done this before," I admitted, the words barely audible over the thunder in my chest.

"Sex?" he asked gently, his voice warm with curiosity, not a trace of judgment.

"No... This." I swallowed. "A hookup. With a stranger."

He nodded, something shifting in his expression—not pity, but understanding. "Then that just means I'll have to take my time with you," he murmured, like a tantalizing promise.  And then I was on the bed, his hands easing me down with a tenderness that stunned me. Like I was something breakable. Something treasured.

Even in the haze of it, I knew this was the stuff of fiction. Every beat of it unreal. But if there was a motive behind him humoring me, I couldn't see it—and I didn't care to look for it. Not tonight.

——

Story Update: Next chapter will be spicy and we get to show a glimpse into Jackson's POV 🤭