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Then her body went rigid. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she snuggled closer, her body molding to mine like it had always belonged there. But I felt a subtle shift, a tension humming beneath her skin, the way her breath no longer matched mine but grew shallower, more uneven. Her hand, which had been resting on my forearm, idly tracing lazy circles, stilled. The room was suddenly too quiet, even with the rush of surf outside and the distant, mournful call of a foghorn somewhere beyond the open window.

I couldn’t see her face. All I could make out was the elegant line of her neck and the fall of hair onto her shoulder, dark ribbons made silver by the moonlight. Her shoulder blades tucked in, like she was bracing for a strong wind to blow or trying to shield herself from the cold. In the hush, I felt her heartbeat, a staccato flutter against my chest, out of sync with my own.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, keeping my voice low, close to her ear. I wanted to pretend we were still entangled in the simplicity of before, that nothing had changed.

She hesitated, then let out a breath that didn’t sound like relief. “Ground rules,” she said, and I could feel her shifting into CEO mode, ruthless, disciplined, her voice as crisp as a new contract. “This was a one-time thing. Sex doesn’t change anything. We go back to exactly how it was before. Agreed?”

Her eyes flicked to mine, searching. I stared back, I don’t know how long, each second stretching out and snapping between us. I wanted to say something, I wanted to say a hundred things, but none of them would have made a difference.

I pressed my face into her hair, breathing in the scent of her, memorizing the slide of her skin against mine, the contours of her body. If this was it, if this was the only time I’d have with her like this, I wanted to record every detail.

“Agreed.”

She nodded once, businesslike, and just like that she relaxed, her body melting back into the mattress. She rolled away from me, facing the window, but her fingers reached behind her, found my wrist, and curled around it. She tugged my arm across her waist and held it there, not letting go. I folded myself around her, letting my thumb trace the smooth line of her hip and stomach, the rise and fall with each breath.

For a while, there was nothing but the steady, rhythmic wash of the waves, the wind rattling the glass panes, and the faint click of the clock on the dresser. Her breathing slowed, deepened, and I felt the tension bleed out of her. Within minutes, she was asleep, her hand still gripping me like a favorite possession she had no intention of sharing.

But I couldn’t sleep. I lay there, wide awake, watching the moon climb higher, watching the shadows stretch and contort across the ceiling. I listened to her heart beating under my palm, steady now, no longer panicked.

I should have been on top of the world. I’d always wanted this, hadn’t I? The chase, the prize, the memory that could keep a man company through a hundred lonely nights. But all I felt was empty.

My head replayed her words, the crisp finality of them, and each time it rewound, I found myself wanting to argue, to protest, to say that she was wrong, that what happened in this bed wasn’t just a blip, or a detour, or a mistake. It had meaning. It had weight. I had never, not once, felt this way about anyone.

But I’d said I agreed. And I meant it, in the way that you mean something when you know the alternative is to lose everything.

The truth was, I’d lied to her. Sex didn’t change anything…It changed everything.

17

THE FAMILY REPRODUCTIVE TIMELINE

Mikayla

I'd made a terrible mistake. A spectacular, life-altering, potentially career-ending mistake. Okay, maybe not career-ending. Unless having sex with Damon Lockhart somehow violated St. Claire Global's code of conduct. Which, considering I was the CEO, would've been awkward.

But the point remained. I'd had sex with Damon Lockhart. And not just sex. Oh, no. That would've been too easy. Too manageable. Too something-I-could-file-away-under-questionable-life-choices-and-never-think-about-again.

Nope.

It had been the kind of sex that ruined any other sex. The kind that made a woman seriously consider abandoning her responsibilities, moving to a ranch, and spending the rest of her life naked.

Which was a problem. A very big, very muscular, devastatingly handsome problem.

I sat at the breakfast table beside my mother, staring at a plate of scrambled eggs I hadn't touched. Around us, the dining room buzzed with conversation. Family members laughed, silverware clinked, and Rob’s Aunt Patricia, at the next table, was passionately debating whether the wedding cake should've been chocolate instead of vanilla.

Normally, I'd have an opinion. A strong one. Today, I couldn't have cared less. Because every time I blinked, I remembered last night.

Damon's hands. His mouth. The way he'd looked at me afterward. Like something important had happened. Like it mattered.

I took a long sip of coffee. My fourth cup. At this rate, my heart was going to demand hazard pay.

Damon had been gone when I woke up. His side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool. He'd left a note on the pillow.

Had some work to take care of. Didn't want to wake you. See you at breakfast, Beautiful.

Simple. Sweet. Infuriating.

I'd read it three times. Then I'd folded it and tucked it into my toiletry bag. Which was ridiculous.