Page 85 of Suite 7

Gerald: Just finished at the gym.

Me: Tough workout?

Gerald: Brutal. Ran six miles. Weights after.

Me: Show-off. Are you completely disgusting right now?

Gerald: Completely.

Me: You should be on one of those gym calendars.

Sloane cranes her neck shamelessly. I angle the screen away.

“So?” She props her chin on her hand. “Is Gerald coming to meet me?”

“No.”

“Does Gerald know about me?”

“Sloane.”

“I’m just saying.” She picks up her wine, smiling into it. “Gerald. I really did not see that coming.”

I look at her — this person who knows me better than almost anyone, who would do anything for me, who told me once that honesty is the thing she can’t survive without — and I smile back.

“You’ve got it bad,” she says, flagging down our server for another bottle of wine. “I’ve never seen you like this. Not even with Damon.”

“That’s because Damon was an asshole who didn’t deserve me.”

“True. But this Gerald...” She studies my face. “He makes you happy. I can see it. I can’t wait to meet him.”

She has no idea she’s already met him. Already loves him.

I set my phone back down on the table between us. Normal. Casual. Like I’m not hiding the one thing that would change the entire shape of this dinner.

My phone buzzes again.

A photo this time.

The screen lights up with his name, and I freeze. The image loads before I can move.

Kane in the gym mirror. Post-workout. Tank top showing his shoulders, his arms, the definition in his chest. Hair damp with sweat. Those gray eyes that I know in entirely different contexts.

Gerald: You’re welcome.

I did not expect him to answer the calendar joke with a photo.

But the phone is face-up on the table. Between me and Sloane.

“Ooh,” Sloane leans forward, squinting at the screen, and every muscle I have goes rigid.

“No!” I snatch it back so fast I nearly knock over my wine glass, clutching the phone to my chest. My heart hammers against my ribs. Cold sweat prickles down my spine. The edge of the phone digs into my sternum and I don’t care, I can’t care, I can barely remember how to breathe.

“Whoa!” Sloane’s laughing, but her eyes are sharp with curiosity now, darting between my face and the phone pressed against my chest. “What was that?”

“It’s private.”

“I barely saw it.” She tilts her head. “Why are you white as a sheet?”