The clock flashed ten p.m. on the stand beside me. 

One tequila. Two tequila. Three.

One wiener. Two wiener. Three.

10:01 and all I could think of at that moment was … six more minutes. Six more minutes until he came inside me, and we were done. Done until the next time. Well, next Saturday night, just like clockwork.

Darkness surrounded us in our two-bedroom penthouse in the poshest area of downtown Rosendell, Michigan. The only light coming in through the window was from the city skyscrapers outside, the gleam highlighting the movement of his body against mine. 

The sweat of his skin was slick against mine. The scent of sex permeated the air. 

Sex was always the same—missionary style on our 1200-thread count sateen sheets, with him pumping into me. I closed my eyes and tried to let the sensations wash over my body. For once, I wished he’d call me sexy, talk dirty … do anything to make me feel as though this wasn’t a job that I was expected to perform. 

I wanted to feel that connection—like we used to have—and not feel like we’d turned into an old married couple when we were only in our early twenties. Eight years together wasn’t a lifetime. Being in a relationship shouldn’t seem like a death sentence.

Sadness engulfed me while we were sharing the most intimate moment between two people. I forced down the loneliness before tears could slip down my cheeks.

I knew sex was coming tonight. After dinner, he’d made me a dirty martini. And it was Saturday. For as long as I could remember, he was the horniest at the end of the work week. Like a gourmet meal at a fancy restaurant, Saturday night seduction started with a martini, then small talk, ending with sex as dessert. I yearned for him to bend me over the couch first and then hand me a martini.

At 10:04, his movements turned erratic. He pumped into me faster. His chest heaved in exhaustion. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brow. My leg was cramping, yet I didn’t care because I told myself for the millionth time—trying to convince myself—that he loved me. He still loved me. This was what couples in love did. And we were in love. This was making love.

So, why did I feel nothing? 

My cheek fell to the side, and I stared at the city through our floor-to-ceiling windows because we had stopped looking at each other during sex a long time ago. Stopped talking after sex. Stopped cuddling after sex. Just stopped.

He didn’t whisper sweet nothings in my ear that would send a wave of shivers up my neck, nor did he make me feel wanted for anything other than someone to get him off. The lump in the back of my throat became the size of a golf ball, the same way it had yesterday, and the days and months before when I’d thought of how we’d morphed into some fifties sitcom couple. We might as well have two twin beds in our bedroom. 

“I love you,” I whispered, all my pent-up emotion pouring out into those three powerful words. 

Because I did. I do. 

I loved him.

He was the only man I’d ever been with. The only man I’d ever known. 

He didn’t hear me, caught up in his own moment of getting off, so I said it again, louder this time. “I love you so much.” 

“Oh, baby, I love you, too.” His words had once meant so much, but the meaning had dwindled over time.

He groaned, then he flipped me over, propping me on top of him. My dark brown hair cascaded over my slender shoulders. He’d said the words I wanted to hear, but I questioned whether he’d meant them. Why did I feel such distance between us even when we were in the same room?

His eyes were clenched shut. I wanted to see the spark of fire in his blue irises. Lock my brown ones with his. Feel the connection between us.

Trying something different, I reached for the ends of his light locks, tugging hard, but he pulled my hands down and moved my hips along his shaft.

I shifted until a sensation rubbed against my sensitive nub. I threw back my head as my hands pressed into his chest and I moved against him, my body beginning to let go.

“Oh, yeah. Baby, you feel so good. Does it feel good?”

“Yes,” I sighed. I lifted my head, wishing, wanting, waiting for ecstasy, then finally a sliver of sensation spread down my legs. 

When he gripped my hips tighter and shifted me, that slightest connection to an orgasm disappeared.

“Wait,” I begged as I readjusted myself. The deep-rooted pinch under my belly tingled. Something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. “Please.” I took his hands in mine and urged him to let me lead the way for once.

And before I knew it, he stilled inside me and a loud moan escaped his mouth.

Done. Jilted. Robbed. 

My body rolled off his. I turned my head, so he couldn’t read my face, and the first tear pushed down my cheek.

He discarded the condom in a tissue on the side table then kissed the back of my neck. 

I glanced at the clock.

10:07.

My whole body tensed, and I exhaled, half-frustration and half-relief that it was over. I had a week until we’d do it again.

“That was amazing, baby.”

“Yes.” Amazing for you.

10:08, just like a clock, he flipped over, conked out, and I stared at the ceiling, feeling empty inside as the thought pushed to the surface … There has to be more to my life than this.

* * *

Careful not to wake him, I slipped out of bed, threw on my robe, and darted toward the kitchen. I knew he had to go into the office today. Being a top investment banker for the largest private equity firm in the nation, he worked almost every weekend. 

He said he’d take the weekends off, but so far, he hadn’t. What had gotten Roland to greatness was his drive for work and his need to always have the best and be the best. 

I had been getting up earlier for the past few years, cooking him a full breakfast almost every day. Growing up in a family where my mother cooked constantly, I found myself believing that a good breakfast had the power to push the day in the right direction. 

Reaching in the overhead cabinet, I pulled down the pancake mix, bowls, and sugar. When I heard the shower running, I moved faster, darting to the fridge to get out the eggs and milk. 

I was about done—our plates and meal set on the table—when Roland strolled into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” I said in my singsong voice.  

Today was a new day. He had promised we’d go to that new Italian restaurant tonight, and I was more than a little excited for date night. We were double dating with my sister. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d gone on a date that didn’t consist of a business meeting with other investment partners and me on Roland’s arm as his eye candy. 

“Good morning,” he replied, methodical and robotic, proceeding to the door as usual to pick up the newspaper.

He never looks at me anymore.

Roland strutted to the table in an Armani suit, handsome and professional in a 6’1” lean package. 

In high school, where we’d met, he’d been a scrawny teenager with the best hair. And I had always been petite and dainty with stick straight dark brown hair. 

But by our freshman year in college, he had grown into his skin nicely, working out constantly and running marathons. He was handsome, beautiful, and kind, and any girl would be lucky to have him.

I placed his favorite mug on the table and sat right next to him. After he opened his Wall Street Journal, he picked up his mug. His coffee was made just how he liked it. Black. No cream. Two sugars.

I cooked for him and, in return, he folded and put my laundry away. Our relationship was oddly even regarding house chores, and from the outside looking in, we were the perfect couple.

I stilled. No, we are the perfect couple. 

I poured the syrup over his pancakes and watched him eat and read his paper like he did every morning. We hadn’t said anything to each other except, “Good morning,” and my stomach dropped because I realized, lately, that had been the norm between us. Our everyday routine included pancakes, me watching him read his paper and not talking. I blinked, letting my reality seep in.

After five minutes of his head in the paper, I pushed out of my chair, sat on his lap, and wrapped my slim but strong arms around his neck. I needed to break the cycle. “I can’t wait for tonight. I’ve only heard good things about Italia Clement. Your work schedule has been crazier than ever.”

I leaned in closer, getting a whiff of his Creed cologne, a bottle of heaven for the insignificant price of five hundred dollars. 

He leaned back against the chair, his features tightening, the stress of work evident on his face. “I know. I’m just trying to establish myself securely at the firm. I’ve been stressed out, and you know this is important to me.” 

I nodded because I knew. Inside, I truly knew he needed to succeed, do well in his job. But where did that leave me? Or, more importantly, us?

“Yes,” I sighed. “I know.”

Still, I couldn’t help how I felt about our relationship lately. That we were drifting apart, and I didn’t know how to salvage us because it seemed as though our relationship had been in this lull for a while. A long while.

“You love me, right?” I asked sweetly, peering down at him, needing him to say it, mean it, needing to believe it. “Yes, Angie. Of course.” His tone was dismissive. 

“Say it, then.” I needed him to say it in full light, not in the heat of the moment.

“I love you, Angelica Armstrong.” He took one brief second to look at me, but then his eyes flicker to his paper.

He’s distracted.

I tried to let those words wash over me, like a tidal wave, but there was no passion behind his voice, no light in his eyes. I swallowed back the lump in my throat and closed the gap between us, capturing his lips with mine. God, I needed more. We used to have electricity. 

I moved to straddle him, trying something new as my kisses intensified.  My robe exposed my bare breasts, and I didn’t readjust myself. I wanted him now, to live in this moment. 

A pure desperation tore through my soul. I wanted him to take full advantage of me. I wanted to have hot, wild sex in the open, in the daylight, not on our bed on a Saturday night. 

When his breathing was labored, my hands moved to his waist to undo his belt. 

Then he stilled, pulling back, and held my hands. “I’m going to be late for work if you start that.” 

“That was the point,” I said in a silky tone. 

“We can’t. I need to be focused today.” His tone leaked annoyance. He pecked me one last time and disentangled my fingers from his. 

His words doused the flame inside of me with cold water, and all my muscles tensed. My jaw tightened, and I tried to hide the hurt behind my composed demeanor. “Sometimes I wish you’d focus on me,” I said, surprised that I let those words slip out.

His look was that of my mother, serious, meaning business, and I didn’t appreciate it. “I’ll focus on you tonight at Italia.”

“But I want you.” I didn’t mean for my voice to sound whiny, but it did. 

He forced my robe shut and moved me off him. “And you have me.” He nodded toward my food before ducking his head back into the Wall Street Journal. “Eat your breakfast, Angie, it’s getting cold.”

I bit my tongue before something crazy flew out and caused a full-blown argument. Picking up my plate and my mug, I proceeded to our bedroom. He wasn’t going to talk to me anyway, not when he had his boring business news in front of him. 

“Are you eating in the bedroom?” 

“Yes,” I said curtly, but you could still hear the hurt behind that one word. 

He didn’t seem fazed, only saying, “Uh … Don’t get crumbs on the bed, Angelica. I read an article on bed bugs the other day.”

I gritted my teeth before I said something I’d regret. I never lost my temper, and I wasn’t going to start now. That was something I prided myself in, something my own mother had instilled in me—composure.

At our bedroom doorway, I reminded him, “Our reservations with Christene are at eight. Please don’t be late, Roland.” Then I shut the door behind me, jumped into bed and grabbed my half-eaten pancake. As if flipping him the middle finger, I ate it with my hands, getting crumbs on the bed on purpose.

* * *

My hair dryer blew on high as I held my round brush above my head in our oversized bathroom. I took in my heart-shaped face in the mirror. My smooth, pale skin glowed with a rose flush on my cheek bones.

The noise from the hair dryer almost drowned out my phone ringing on the counter. One look at Christene’s goofy face—cross-eyed and sticking out her tongue—had me smiling. Though I was the younger sister by only a few years, I acted like the older one.

After I switched off my dryer and placed it on the marble countertop, I reached for my cell. 

“Angieeeeeee,” she squealed in her typical greeting. “What time is dinner again?”

I wondered how Tene could remember every workday appointment but failed to keep her social calendar organized. All she had to do was scroll up on our texts on her phone to see what time I’d made the reservations.

“Eight.” I pulled a strand of hair out of my eyes, staring at my brown-eyed reflection in the mirror, my dark locks cascading down my back. “Brad’s still going tonight, right? I included him in the head count.”

“Uh, well, it’s Tim now.”

“Who’s Tim?”

“This guy I met at a bar last night.” She laughed. 

“Tene.” I heard the scolding tone of my mother in my voice, and I bit it back. “Okay, sorry. As long as you’re being safe, I shouldn’t even care. You are, right? Being safe, I mean.”

“Safe and sound. Nothing is popping out down there anytime soon.”

My sister, though she was a party animal, was a business woman at her core. That’s why my father trusted her with his company: Armstrong Real Estate Corporation. Our family owned more than half the real estate in Rosendell and the neighboring towns. 

My sister had taken a more active role a year ago when our father had become ill. She was cutthroat and a no bullshit type of business woman. Our tenants knew she wasn’t a pushover, and my father knew she could handle the business just fine. Now it was my turn to step up to the plate, and since I was finally done with my master’s degree, I was more than ready to contribute to the family—finally.  

“That’s good.” I pulled the cell closer to my ear, gripping it tightly. “I can’t wait to see you tonight. It’s been tense with Roland lately, and I think a double date would be good. I purposely invited you, so he wouldn’t cancel.”

“Okay, I won’t cancel, then.” Christene’s voice tinged with humor. “I was going to ask you to go to Allswell tonight after dinner.”

“Allswell?”

“Yes, hello! The former Clyde’s Bar and Restaurant. I filled that space a couple months ago.”

I furrowed my brow. “I thought our new tenant owned a restaurant.”

“Restaurant by day, hopping club by the weekend. There’s a ton of press on these owners and their clubs and restaurants nationwide. They opened last week, and it’s the hottest spot in Rosendell right now.”

My eyebrows pulled together. No wonder she was able to jack up the rent, and the tenant was able to afford it. My father had been singing her praises for weeks at filling that space. I hoped someday I’d be able to contribute to my family in the same way. 

Glancing at my half-done hair in the mirror brought me back to the present. “Roland’s not the clubbing type. Please, Christene. We need this.” Roland had been so focused on work, he needed a break. He needed a night out, other than dinner with his clients. And selfishly, I wished for a real date with my boyfriend. 

“Okay, sounds good.” Her tone was tinged with disappointment. “But maybe you and Roland would want to head to Allswell right after?”

I laughed. “I doubt it.” My Roland at a club? If the place wasn’t serving caviar and champagne, he wasn’t a fan. 

I glanced back at my reflection in the mirror, seeing a hopefulness in my eyes. A dinner date with two of my favorite people. Maybe tonight was the night he’d try something different. “I’ll ask him.”

After getting ready, I plopped down on our leather couch in the living room and watched TV. When a couple of hours had passed, I tapped my finger on my chin, staring at the phone resting in the middle of our circular glass coffee table. My feet pushed against the hand-knotted Persian Rug that Roland had ordered from Iran.

I had called him, yet nothing. I’d left a voicemail twice, but nothing. 

He was late.

Patience was a virtue, but my patience for Roland’s tardiness flew out the door about thirty minutes ago. Minutes ticked by and I wrung my hands together, wishing his neck was in between them. 

It was seven-thirty. Our reservations were for eight, and Roland had said he’d be back home at seven, so we’d make it to the restaurant in time. It had taken months to get this reservation. Italia Clement’s management didn’t care what my last name was. They occupied one of the few properties that we didn’t own, so I didn’t have any clout.

“Damn it, Roland.” I stood and picked up the phone again, waiting for his voicemail to beep. “Roland, this is my third message. Please call your girlfriend back.” My tone was calm, cool, and collected, opposite the burning ball of anger inside of me.

I ended the call quickly as my face burned bright and glanced at the clock again as I’d done just seconds ago. 

In ten minutes, I was leaving with or without him. 

Suddenly, my phone pinged with a text. Hope bloomed in my chest, but then I read his text, and that hope was obliterated like a bomb blowing up in my face.

I should’ve known better.

Sorry, I’m tied up at work. 

Don’t be mad. 

Please, I’ll make it up to you.

I’d heard that excuse before. Many times before. Like a broken record.

I squeezed the phone hard enough that the edges caused an indentation on my skin.

Anger was a crazy emotion. It could consume me and cripple me into someone I didn’t like to be. As I slumped against the wall and read his text again, the thought of bleaching all his ties crossed my mind. Or even better yet …                                                                                                                                                  throwing out his very expensive Edward Green leather shoes that had cost thousands. Though I’d never do it, the thought did float to the surface.

I huffed. It didn’t matter anyway; I bet he’d just buy himself three more pairs.

If I didn’t know him as well as I did, I would have thought that he was having late-night affairs. But since I’d met Roland sophomore year in high school, I knew that he was forever married to excelling in school and work and winning. It was his gasoline. His drive to be the best was what kept him alive, ticking, and well. 

So why did I feel so much resentment? 

I didn’t respond as I stared at my phone, and then I did something unlike me. I texted Tene and did the unthinkable.

Guess who canceled? 

I’m eating a quick dinner here. 

Meet you at Allswell?

It didn’t take long for her to text me right back.

Oh Angie, you just made my night! 

I’m canceling with Tim. Meet me at the restaurant. 

We’re having dinner, baby. You’re my date, and dinner is on me.

My insides lightened, and a smile surfaced on my face. I bit at my thumbnail and peered down at my black tapered pants and cream, button-down silk shirt. I didn’t have anything even remotely club appropriate, so I texted her again, and she promised to bring me something.

Most likely, my night would end up with me taking care of her or catching a cab home while she made out with some random dude, but I shrugged. Because that was more exciting than waiting around for Roland to come home and risk the possibility of me going crazy and destroying his wardrobe. 

I glanced at my phone again, debating on texting him back, but thought better of it.

He wouldn’t be thinking of me tonight, anyway, and I would try my hardest not to think about him.

Tene threw her arm around my shoulder and pulled me down the sidewalk to the bar. As we got closer, I realized a crowd had formed all the way down the block. There had never been a line when this place had been Clyde’s. The new sign said Allswell. 

My eyebrows pulled together, taking in the scene. Just a month ago, I’d been here to do an inspection as I was shadowing Tene. She had given Taylor, the last tenant, his deposit back, and she was showing me the ropes.  

The building in front of me now—our building—had been transformed. The brown awning had been replaced with a classy lit-up sign in curvy letters against the building. Clyde’s had been a jeans and T-shirt type of establishment, Allswell was not. Women in skimpy outfits, designer clothing that I was familiar with, and men in button-downs all waited their turn to get their IDs checked.

“Seriously Ang, you look smoking hot. I wonder how many guys will be hitting on you tonight.” She flipped her highlighted locks over her shoulder. The color of our hair was identical, dark mahogany brown, but hers was lifted with the lighter burgundy tones of her smooth salon hair. Where my skin was naturally pale, hers was weekly-tanned. But no one could deny we were sisters. It was in our jawline and high cheek bones, which were our mother’s, and the shape of our face and the big brown eyes that all belonged to Daddy.

“It’s too bad Roland’s not here to keep the men away.” She playfully bumped her hip against mine. “When Roland’s away, Angie will play.”  

Her chipper attitude broke through my sour mood, and a grin broke free on my face. Oh, how I needed a tall glass of wine inside the club. “Oh, I never asked you. What happened to Tim?” 

During dinner, I’d vented about Roland while she listened, so I forgot to ask her about the guy who was supposed to be her date for the night.

She smirked and shrugged her shoulder. “I caught a bug. You know, the ‘if I take you, you’re going to ruin my game’ bug.”

I let out a carefree laugh. 

The loud bass of the music boomed from inside as the crowd congregated, smoking and waiting by bouncers standing by the velvet rope. 

Tene reached for my hand and ushered us all the way to the front. “I called the owner, but he didn’t answer his phone.” She shook her head, annoyed. “We own this joint. I’m serious. I’m not about to wait an hour to get in.” 

That was how she always felt—entitled. When we were younger, she exhibited the need to boss me around, take my toys, and be the first in line at every amusement ride at Disney. All because she’d been born first.

But … she had also been the one to beat up the bully who used to pick on me because I had braces, lie to Mrs. Conner about why I hadn’t finished my project, and interview every guy I ever dated … because she had been born first.

She had her quirks and faults, but she was my sister. And through the years, because of my family name and the money that went with it, I’d learned that, sometimes, family was all you could count on.

Tene reached for the tie holding her ponytail together and shook her long locks until they cascaded over her shoulders. Her hair lay right below her breasts, accenting her evenly spray-tanned skin. 

A six-foot, dark-haired male eyed me, and then his sights flipped to her. She gave him her winning smile that made him smile back in response. He was a good-looking guy, lean with muscles that seemed like they wanted to break free of his fitted, too-tight T-shirt.

She leaned in, bending forward, showing off her perfect breasts, not at all adjusting herself when her tube top dipped a little. 

“Hi, handsome,” she cooed. 

Oh, boy. This guy doesn’t have a chance.

Her voice oozed everything sensual about a woman, sultry and sexy with an underlying ounce of sweetness. “My sister and I are on the guest list. Angelica and Christene Armstrong.” She peeked at the clipboard in his hand. Of course, we weren’t on the guest list. I doubted that Tene even knew there was a guest list, given that there had never been a guest list at the former bar. She could make anyone believe practically anything—the sky is brown and the earth is flat and brussel sprouts tasted like candy. Besides being born beautiful, she had been born a liar.

With his pointer finger, he scanned the list. When he peered up again, he shook his head. “Sorry, babe.”

Her eyebrows shot up to the sky. “Let me take a peek,” she said breathlessly. Close to him, she tiptoed and scanned the list. 

His eyes drank her in. All of her. And I’d bet my next paycheck that he had a major hard-on. Men probably saluted with their dicks when she passed by.

I pushed down the jealousy that coursed through my veins as I wondered how it would be to always feel wanted. Every-damn-where you went. How crazy wonderful that would feel, to just walk into a room and be the envy of every girl and the object of every guy’s affection. 

I’d even take one guy’s affection. My guy’s affection. 

I couldn’t get the same reaction—naked, in front of my own boyfriend. I used to feel wanted and loved. That seemed like forever ago. 

She perked up, her lip pouting as forced disappointment seeped out of her every pore. “I swore I called us in.” She placed her hand on his bicep, lightly squeezing it. “Is there anything you can do?” 

And then—she fluttered her eyelashes, which was almost the equivalent to dropping her panties, seeing as they produced the same effect. 

Just as I expected, he peered at his counterpart wearing an earpiece. Tene took that opportunity to snuggle against him. “Why don’t I buy you a drink inside? And if we can’t get inside, I can’t buy you that drink that you deserve.” The sweetness in her voice was like molten chocolate.

She could’ve been an actress in her former life. I stared at the concrete to prevent a smile. He’d give in. They always did.

And as if on command, he uttered one low, “Yes.” He reached to unclasp the velvet rope to let us slide in. “Sure, why not? I wouldn’t want you pretty ladies waiting forever.” Angling toward her, he said, “I get off at midnight. I’m Dax.”

Tene smiled, but it was one that meant this guy had no chance in hell. “My name is Christene.” She placed her hand in his and shook it lightly before reaching for mine and pulling me into the club. “Find me later,” she called back. 

Later?

She’d be with another guy by then.

The speakers were blaring some sort of techno music, just beats where I couldn’t sing along, but the bass of the tune had my body shaking and not by choice. I preferred places where I could bounce on my seat and sing along to the lyrics. Allswell was not that place.

What had once been booths and circular tables was now reinvented with dark gray velvet booths that lined the perimeter of the room. Strobe lights illuminated the dark wood dance floor in the middle of the restaurant, highlighting the people swaying seductively to the beat. 

“Oh, my god. This place is totally amazing. It’s crazy in here.” I barely heard Tene and would’ve heard her less if she weren’t already screaming into my ear. There was no way we could’ve held a conversation in the place.

A tall guy grabbed her from behind, and she exchanged words with him. I swore she knew everyone in our town. After she hugged him, she reached for my hand, forging us toward the bar, where everyone had congregated.

The place was jam packed with people, making my skin itch and me wishing for my couch, my PJs, and a tall glass of red wine.

I adjusted the spaghetti straps of my sister’s teeny tiny tank top. I was a cup smaller than her full Cs, so I had no idea how she fit in the black sequined thing I had on as it pressed against my strapless bra.

The humidity caused a sheen of sweat to form behind my neck. I wasn’t claustrophobic, but there were way too many people in here. Way more than what the approved legal capacity was. 

I shook my head and told worry-wart-Angelica to stop.

The red fire Exits could be spotted at both ends of the room. I released a sigh of relief, thankful that Tene had the lights fixed when the tenant had moved in. I remembered my father mentioning something about the city inspection and our exit signs. 

Once we were closer to the bar, she released me and pushed herself to the front to get us drinks. She raised her hand, and when the bartender turned around, I was shocked by an attraction so strong, I swore I stopped breathing. Stopped moving. Stopped thinking. Just stopped.

Wow. Just wow. 

His eyes locked with mine. A deep, dark depthless color I couldn’t distinguish drew me closer. His dark hair, almost jet black, shined against the strobe lights at the perfect angle. 

His face was that of an angel, the planes of his cheekbones sharp but stunningly beautiful. His lips were full and luscious—and smirking. 

He stopped making his drink mid-pour and drank me in. All of me. He scoured my face and then my body, as though in the dark room, there was a spotlight on me. And instantly, my body reacted. My nipples pebbled. My mouth went dry. And my insides heated to tamale-hot temperatures by just his one look alone. One look. If my body reacted to him with just one look, I wondered how I would react to his touch.

The moment the thought registered, I stiffened and forced the thought out of my head.

My sister snapped her fingers in front of his face and turned around to see that his focus was on me. Her smile was blinding, and she leaned in to whisper something in his ear. He peered up again and smiled a crooked smile. Not overly big, but just enough where the side of his mouth lifted. 

When his gaze locked with mine again, his smile disappeared, and his face turned serious. An undeniable attraction surged between us, almost forcing me to take a step forward. His hands functioned with purpose, making drinks, but he would not tear his stare from my face. And I couldn’t take mine off him, either. In those few seconds, it was as though we were the only two people in the room. 

Through the darkness, he licked his lips. Heat pooled between my legs without my consent. I felt like he was picturing me naked in his bed, and he was having his way with me. I bit my bottom lip, feeling exposed and vulnerable at the idea of doing something forbidden. 

I wiped my sweaty palms down Tene’s tank top as his look turned dangerous, and all that yearning I’d been feeling for something more in my life rose to the surface. 

For once in my life, I wanted to welcome this danger. I wanted to live on the edge.

After he handed Tene her drink, he whispered something to the other bartender and then surprised me by jumping over the bar.

I froze, wishing I hadn’t welcomed danger mere seconds ago because danger was approaching. He stalked toward me, slow, seductive, and stealthy, like a cat. A really big one. He was almost predatory, and I felt frozen, yet I wanted to run in the other direction.

All thoughts, no talk and no action, I took a step away. 

The closer he came, the more my palms began to sweat. His big-as-boulders shoulders blocked my view of Tene, so he was the only thing in my sight. I lifted my chin to take in the height of him, and something ignited deep in my belly—a feeling foreign, yet familiar. His face was ruggedly hot with sexy scruff forming on his cheeks, and a dimple deep in his chin.

But his eyes … they were hypnotic. The color of steel, strength, and heat oozed out of them, and even if I wanted to, I couldn’t take my gaze off him. His profile was strong and rigid, his skin a contrast to the darkness of his hair. 

When he reached for my waist, I lost any sense of control, lost the sensation in my legs, my body, but mostly my mind. His grip was rough, but oddly it gave me a sense of protection. 

He leaned into me, so close I could smell the mint on his lips, the masculine scent on his skin, and said, “Let’s dance.”

It was a command, not a question.

I blinked up at him. “I have a boyfriend.”

His laugh was throaty and thick and oh-so-sexy. “Did I ask if you had a boyfriend?”

When he angled closer, I placed one hand lightly against his chest, given his proximity and how close we were, and given that I was already taken. He must have read the reluctance on my face because he uttered, “One dance.”

With no other words spoken, he led us to the bass of the beats in the background. His hands moved to my slender hips, pulling me against him. Closer … until he closed the gap between us and we were grinding on the dance floor.

My arms fell on his shoulders, and his hands tightened around my waist. Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes turned into ten, then fifteen. Songs changed, but we were still dancing, his hands on my body and our bodies in sync, and more intimately, our gaze never leaving each other’s. I read lust, need, and want through his dark irises. And though we weren’t talking, he might as well have been telling me what he wanted to do to me, to my body.

He felt amazing, he smelled amazing, and he looked … edible. Too good to be this close.

When he turned me around and wrapped his hands around my stomach, pulling me into him, my body was on fire. This was bad. So bad. When his fingers fell right by my upper thigh, I stilled then moved away. This was no longer dancing. I’d let it go too far, and I wasn’t letting it go any further. 

I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my hand. Electricity surged at our connection. “Where are you going?”

My voice shook with guilt and grief and remorse. “Home.”

He smiled his intoxicatingly beautiful smile. “I didn’t catch your name,” he yelled above the music.

I shook my head. He didn’t need to know my name, and I didn’t want to know his. It would’ve made our encounter more personal. I wanted my brief lapse in judgment to be between strangers.

“Well, I’m Cade.” He waited for me to reply, but I didn’t. “And you must be …” he prompted. When I didn’t say anything, he replied with his own answer, “Beautiful.”

I blushed and averted my gaze. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” 

I searched for Tene in a panic, ready to get as far away from Allswell and the masculine bartender with the dark-as-night steel gray eyes.

Morning light hit every corner of our kitchen, which only highlighted the grease stains and dust bunnies that I needed to clean later.

I stood by the stove, making breakfast, thinking about last night as guilt ran through my veins. I tried to reason with myself. I had stopped it before anything had gotten out of hand, hadn’t I?

God, am I a mess. A total, utter mess. 

Roland’s footsteps into the kitchen broke me from my trance. He walked to the door as I continued to make his pancakes. I hadn’t forgotten why I’d been at Allswell instead of Italia Clement in the first place. I should’ve boycotted making him breakfast, but, if anything, cooking made me feel better. I was consoled by the aroma of the food, and the scent lightened my mood. 

“I’m sorry, Angie,” he said, taking a seat at the table without looking at me.

It’s not like I hadn’t heard those three words before. They were etched in my brain from repetition, like a song on replay. But the truth was, if he valued our relationship, he would’ve shown up.

He had promised. He always promised.

He sighed as if he was tired and that was the best excuse he could offer. “I had a meeting with those investors. This new client could double my bonus.”

Bonus? His bonus?

I had an urge to yell at the top of my lungs, but I barely bit it back. We had all the money in the world between our families. What we didn’t have was time. You couldn’t buy back time. 

I pulled two plates from the overhead cupboard and placed our pancakes on them, followed by the omelet in the other pan.

When I sat down at the table, my gaze fell on him reading the paper. My hand briefly clenched then released.

I only had wanted to spend time with him so we could strengthen our relationship, rekindle anything we had left.

The guilt within me diminished and was replaced with a silent annoyance. 

“Angie, I’ll make a reservation for Italia for next week. I just needed to make that meeting.” His head didn’t lift from the Wall Street Journal.

“I don’t want or need your money,” I said softly. “We both know our families will be fine for generations to come. What I want is you. Your time. I want the man that used to take me out to dinner, surprise me on weekend getaways. I want the man that loved me above everything and anything.” I pressed my hands to my chest and tried to control the quiver in my voice. “I miss us, the relationship that we used to have before you worked for Baird Equity Corp.” 

Now I was beginning to sound like a broken record. How many times had we had this conversation, and after I’d complain, we would be fine. But that moment was brief—fleeting—until we both sounded like a bad sitcom rerun.

“Try to understand,” he said, exasperated.

I stood, not wanting to hear the two words again he always uttered on repeat. I turned to face him, frowning, hurt seeping out of me. “I always try to understand, and what I don’t understand is why you put everything above me.”

Once again, I took my plate to the bedroom, closed the door, and ate breakfast by myself. 

Sometimes, I could picture us during high school or at the beginning of college. Roland picking me up from school, holding hands as we took a walk by the lake. But the picture in my head was fuzzy—blurry—as though it was fading. Sometimes I wondered if it even happened. 

When I heard the door shut, indicating that Roland had left for work, my heart hurt. I wished he would fight a little harder for us. There would be times that I would wait for him to burst into our room, get on his knees and apologize and mean it. In my scenario, he would kiss me hard and say it would never happen again. Then we’d have make-up sex, and he’d prove to me that I was loved, and for once, he was truly sorry. And this time I’d believe him.

I rubbed the center of my chest, the pang of rejection strong and steady. I stared blankly at the plate in my lap, focusing on the broken pieces of the pancake, broken just like our relationship.

Wallowing wouldn’t lighten my spirit, so I lifted my chin, deciding that was enough of self-pity. 

I emerged from the bedroom to get ready for work and picked up the phone and immediately dialed Tene. Speaking to my family always lifted my mood.

“Hey, Angie. One sec, I’m in the Starbucks line.” She blurted out her order of a venti caramel macchiato with two extra shots of espresso before she got back on the line.

“Sorry, babe. I can’t start my morning without my coffee, especially since I was partying all night long.”

I had left the bar at one in the morning, while Tene had met up with a couple of girlfriends. Where the hell did she get all her energy? 

“I still don’t know how you do it.” Where I was in bed daily at ten p.m., Tene was able to go out until three in the morning and still function the next day. 

“I do it because I have to, and I still want to maintain a life and run Armstrong. Listen, I’m running to my flight, coffee in hand, so I have to hang up in about two seconds. It’s the last call, and everyone has boarded the plane. Thanks again for handling downtown this morning. Training by fire. Good luck.” She was flying to Corrington today, a few towns over, about three hours away, to sign a contract with a strip mall we owned down there, so I had to assist her in some business in downtown Rosendell. 

I sucked in a breath and nodded. “No problem, sis. I’ve got this.” Since I graduated with my master’s a mere few months ago, I’d been handling the smaller properties on the south side of Rosendell and our suburban locations. I tended to the more stable tenants who’d been occupying our properties for years. 

Downtown Rosendell was a different beast, high-end shopping and five-star restaurants and bars. Tene was used to dealing with the high-end retail space and high-maintenance tenants; I wasn’t. She knew how to talk to them, how to please them, how to raise rent and make our tenants believe that it was their idea.

“You’ll handle it just fine,” she said firmly and with confidence. “Okay, I’ll see you tonight at Dad’s birthday dinner. Love you. Oh, and stop by Allswell. The owner had a list of repairs that needed to be done.”

“Uh …” I stammered, looking for an excuse to say no.

And then she hung up.

I blinked. All I could think about was the too-hot-to-handle bartender, his hands … his scent … his lips. I rested against my down pillows, remembering the way he drank me in, making me feel wanton, lusted for. I remembered the way his thick, calloused hands gripped my thighs and held my stomach. 

I wiped my sweaty palms down the front of my shirt and shook myself out of this daydream. Besides, I doubted he’d be there. But just in case, I’d go before the restaurant opened to talk to the owner alone. That bartender was danger and most definitely off-limits.

* * *

Training by fire, Tene had said?

No crap.

Bob, owner of Bob’s Donuts, steepled his hand by his lips as he sat behind his desk, opposite me. 

A light sheen of sweat formed at my brow and my knees bobbed with anxiety. Men who built an empire of donuts were successful for a reason, and it wasn’t just in the recipe. Though he was in a teal signature apron, he was a businessman through and through. I’d heard stories. 

“Did you have time to review the lease that Christene emailed?” I asked, forcing my voice to be steady.

“I did. I see you’re raising my rent on a yearly basis.” His tone was sharp, and there was visible tension in his neck and shoulders.

I shifted in my seat.

Christene mentioned he’d complain about the increases. He’d been complaining about the past few renewals.

“Bob, this is not something new,” I tried to reason with him. “We have to keep up with the rise in maintenance and taxes. This was built into your lease when you signed with us ten years ago.”

He sighed heavily with exaggeration. “I know, but you would think with a name like mine, and the fact that I’ve been in business for over two decades, you would cut me a break.”

My hands twitched in my lap. One day I would be running Armstrong Real Estate with Christene, and I would need to learn how to deal with hard tenants. Today was that day.

Breathe. Show no mercy. 

My stomach churned, and I wanted to throw up. 

I forced a polite smile. “Bob, I assure you, we value your business and your loyalty. Bob’s Donuts is indeed a well-known franchise—a household name, in fact. And because of that, we have kept your increases at a steady rate of three percent per year, which is less than the inflation rate and the rise of costs to maintain this building. And this is a prime location. You are on Elgin Avenue, where there is always traffic.” Elgin Avenue in Rosendell was comparable to Michigan Avenue in Chicago. All the hip bars and restaurants were located on Elgin Avenue. Not to mention the high-end shops just a few blocks away.

He shook his head, and his jaw tightened. “I believe I’ll be taking my business somewhere else, then.”

Shit.

My stomach dropped, but I didn’t give anything away. I came here to have him sign the papers, not lose a well-known tenant. There was no way I could bear to tell my favorite person in the whole world—my father—that I’d lost one of his biggest tenants. A dizzying current spread through my body, making me feel as though I was on a rocky boat. 

I lifted my chin, trying to get some semblance of control. “We’d hate to lose you, but this is a prime location, and unfortunately, we wouldn’t have a problem filling this spot and asking for the normal increase of five percent.”

His eyes hardened, and I smiled back to counter his harsh face. I had the desire to flee or cry to make him stay, but I kept my feet steadily planted on the floor, my hands lightly on my lap, my face even.

The silence seemed to drag on, and our staring contest went on for some time until, finally, he let out a low belly laugh, one that brightened his whole demeanor, but confused the hell out of me. His mood change gave me whiplash. 

He shook his head and signed the papers in front of him. “You drive a hard bargain, Angelica. I’ll tell your father you did well.”

My father?

As though he’d read my thoughts, he said, “Your father told me to give you a hard time, and I happily told him I’d oblige. Freshman initiation.” 

I laughed, though I didn’t find it as funny as he clearly did. “I’ll have to give my father my own personal thank you when I get home,” I said. I glanced around for show. “You don’t happen to have old donuts lying around? Preferably the hard ones that’ll take out some of his teeth?”

“He still has his?” Bob pushed out his false teeth with his tongue, then popped it back in. I almost dropped my purse in shock. “Too many donuts over the years.” He laughed again, stood, and I followed his lead out to the kitchen. “How is your old man, anyway?”

“He’s okay. Still recovering from his heart attack.” 

Over a year ago, the doctor had told us there was seventy percent blockage in Daddy’s arteries. That day, my world had bottomed out. After his heart attack, a stent was placed in his chest, and my family had been careful with him since, making sure that work and stress were avoided. “He’s getting better. I’m sure he thinks we’re babying him, and my mother is driving him crazy because they’re around each other all the time, but we just want to make sure he stays well. “

“I know,” Bob said, patting my shoulder. “Smile, pretty lady. I’m sure he’ll be just fine. I’ve known your dad a long time, and I’m sure he wanted to get back to work yesterday.” Bob walked to the counter, shoved donuts into a bag and placed the bag in my hands. He raised an eyebrow, making a point. “Make sure you share, okay?”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded. “And thanks again. Later, Bob.”

I pressed a palm to my chest, let out a huge breath and swung the bag of donuts back and forth as I headed to my next destination, Allswell, which was conveniently the space next door.

After eating a powdered donut, I entered the club, now restaurant. The area was silent. There were no employees around, and thankfully, no bartender from last night. 

The place had transformed once again. It was almost unrecognizable aside from the signature bar that spanned both sides of the room. Circular tables were set with silverware and plates, in the middle of what had been the dance floor. Booths adorned the perimeter wall. 

I straightened my stance when the kitchen door flew open, and a woman walked in, carrying a crate of wine glasses. Her dark brown hair was chin short, swishing against her cheeks. She had a piercing on her eyebrow that twitched when she met my gaze.

I approached her, cradling my bag of donuts in my other arm to offer my hand. “Hi. I’m Angelica Armstrong, from Armstrong Realty. I’m here to meet Ryder.” 

She dropped the crate on one of the center tables, and the wineglasses clinked together. She wiped her hands down her black apron before she took my hand.  “Ryder?” She quirked an eyebrow. “I’m Kristy, I’m the manager here. Cade is in the back.” She turned her head to call him out, “Cade!”

Cade?

I registered the name, confused at first, then panic set in. When he stepped out of the kitchen right behind the bar, my heart stammered loudly, so loud I wouldn’t doubt if he heard it. He was the same bartender from last night. The same bartender that had me breathing hard and set my body on fire.