August 16

Something soft brushes against my cheek. It tickles. I wrinkle my nose. Man, I’m so out of it...hovering on the fringe of a deep, relaxing sleep, the best one I’ve had in months. I’m warm and comfortable, the kind of feeling like when you’re laying on the couch in front of a fire piled with blankets, or laying on the beach with the sun so warm, you feel like it’s pinning you down. So I absolutely don’t want to wake up.

Again with the soft thing on my cheek—little more pressure this time. I try to swat at it, but my arm feels floppy and heavy. Now it’s touching my nose...there’s a quick little pinprick feeling, so now I’m sliding into awake mode, forcing my eyelids open.

It’s a cat. Sitting near my pillow, looking down on me and purring like a motor boat.

I don’t have a cat.

A clutching feeling in my chest. Faster breathing, realization setting in, as a bar of sunlight streams through the sliver of space between the shade and the window trim. It shines like a beacon on the face of the woman lying next to me.

I spent the night with Madeline Callaway. Slept with her, as in literally REM sleeping.

I broke one of my rules.

I broke one of my most important rules.

I’m no longer feeling warm. Everything is suddenly ice-cold-crystal-clear, and every cell of me is on high alert.

I spent the night with Madeline Callaway.

The cat—Murphy—is squinting at me. It’s been my experience that cats usually look like they’re plotting your death, but this dude always has a friendly expression, if cats even have expressions. I give him a little scratch between the ears, and he closes his eyes and pushes his head against my hand.

Beside me, Madeline lets out this deep, contented sigh. I’m lying on my back, stiff but not in the good sense, and I turn my head carefully, slowly, to look at her. I don’t want to wake her up just yet—partly because I don’t want to disturb her, but partly because I don’t know how the fuck I am supposed to act.

She looks beautiful—like take-my-breath-away beautiful. She’s on her side, and there’s a soft pink glow to her face. It’s not like I haven’t seen women sleeping before—I lived with Brianne, and obviously had plenty of occasions to watch her, but it’s funny, I never really thought to do it. With Callaway, it’s different—like time is almost suspended, and like I can’t stop staring at her—looking at the rise and fall of her chest, getting a little morning wood seeing the swell of her breasts peeking out of the black lace top...Christ. I’m wanting her all over again.

Last night was incredible. Our best yet. Part of the reason I fell asleep, I’m sure, was because I was totally drained after being with her. Wrecked. Annihilated. We did it three times (the anaconda was definitely up to the challenge, so to speak), our last one being in the shower. We got to break it in together: tested out the Drench rainshower head, which was amazing—so many individual jets streaming down on you with that ten-inch model. Standing in the shower with her, I got hard all over again washing her—lathering up my hands and soaping her beautiful tits, her flat belly, the seductive slope of her hips...sliding one hand down to her sweet heat and getting hornier than hell when she spread her legs and tipped her head back, the water running down in rivulets between her breasts. I lifted the hand-held massager out of its holder, turned the dial to a gentle pulse, and directed the jet at her pussy. I’m all about customer satisfaction, I had explained. I want to make sure everything’s in good working order. Her laugh turned very quickly into a sigh, then a series of heart-stopping moans when I went down on her. She got there within seconds, and she repaid the favor with one of the most phenomenal BJ’s I’ve ever had.

This woman...Jesus, I’m thinking she’s ruined me for anyone else.

Scariest fucking thought I’ve ever had. It goes way beyond spiders.

Some of Callaway’s hair is laying across her forehead in a coppery-brown tangle. I feel like I should push it away from her face, so I reach my hand toward her. But then it hits me that this seems like a boyfriend or husband thing to do.

Can’t do that. I bring my arm back fast.

So I’m lying here, still as stone, and I’m weighing my options—wondering if I can slide out of bed and slip out the door without waking her up—maybe leave her a goodbye note or text her from my truck. Nah, that’s bullshit, a total dick move. She deserves more. I’ve got to man-up and deal with this error in judgment.

While I’m trying to figure out how to wake her—whether I should clear my throat, or cough, or give her a little nudge—her cat takes care of it for me. Murphy climbs over me like it’s no big deal that I’m laying here and walks along the side of Callaway’s body like she’s a balance beam. She makes a little sound. I watch her eyelids flutter and then open. She’s in that hazy phase in between asleep and awake that I was in just a few minutes ago, but as her senses become clearer and she realizes that I’m beside her, her eyes widen and brighten, like she can’t believe I’m here.

That makes two of us.

I decide I’m going to do what I do best—play it cool, keep things light, smile. “It would appear that I, uh, spent the night.”

“It would appear that way, yes.” She’s blushing and so goddamned adorable and sexy, I want to have her for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner.

Watch yourself, Big Deck. “Guess I liked your sheets.”

“Egyptian cotton, 800 thread count.”

“Nice. Although I think it had more to do with the woman in them.” Ahh, shit. Shit and shit and shit. What the fuck am I thinking, saying things like that, especially when I’m supposed to be easing up, backing away? Especially when I fucking spent the night.

I mentally gut-punch myself and toss off the covers like they’re suffocating me, because that’s kind of what’s happening right now. “So...I’m gonna get out of your hair, Callaway. Didn’t mean to sleep over—sorry about that.”

She sits up against the headboard, pulling the sheets up to her chest and blinking at me. Her voice is soft. “I’m not sorry, Jack.”

I get off the bed and go to find my clothes. I’m naked, and I don’t usually get self-conscious about being in my birthday suit in front of women—ever—but we’re talking about this woman, and seeing as I’m feeling like she can see right through me, I’ve got this need to get dressed and put some sort of barrier between the two of us. Real rational, I know. But I’m not feeling rational, and I haven’t had coffee, and I need coffee and I need to get out of here.

My plan to drive through Coffee Express on the way home is changed to me having coffee and a bagel at Madeline’s kitchen table, because Jesus, her face. She’s quiet, and I get it—I’m not feeling too talkative myself.

I’m dressed in last night’s work clothes; she’s wearing a short, silky-looking robe with flowers on it and her hair up in a loose bun. I watch her move around the kitchen: taking the bottle of creamer out of the refrigerator, opening the pantry door to get Murphy’s food dish, reaching up to get two mugs out of the cupboard, her bare, tanned calves flexing.

She sits down at the table and slides the container of cream cheese toward me. I slather some on my bagel. She has her fingers wrapped around her mug, staring down at her coffee like it’s got answers. A wavy lock of her hair falls forward, dangling over her mug, and without thinking, I do the thing I was debating doing before, in bed: I reach out and brush it away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. She looks up at me in surprise and gives me the smallest of smiles.

“Jack...”

“I’ve come to a conclusion, Callaway.”

“What’s that?”

“Your husband must have been a total idiot.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Seriously, a complete moron. But I feel kind of sorry for him, because he gave up such a stunning woman. If I ever see him, I should say thank you, because without his stupidity, I never would have met you.” My throat gets a little clogged so I clear it, and damn, Callaway eyes are filling up, a tear sliding down her cheek. I reach over and give her arm a little squeeze.

“Hey, hey...no crying, okay? I don’t want to make you sad.”

She nods, picks up her napkin, dabs it at her eyes, tries to smile. My chest feels full and tight. It’s a weird sensation, and for a second I worry I’m having a heart attack. All of a sudden I’ve got this panicky urge to leave. I can’t drag this out for much longer; it’s too tough for both of us. I have a kind of goodbye gift for her, so I’ll get that and then go home.

“I have something for you, in my truck. And it’s not the bill.” I grin at her, hoping to lighten the mood. “Be right back, okay?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be pathetic.”

“You’re far from pathetic, Callaway. And don’t apologize.” My chair scrapes against the tile floor as I get up. I bend down to give her a quick kiss on the cheek on my way out.

I open the door to the breath of August, hot and heavy in my face. It’s the kind of day where around noontime, you’ll be able to actually see the heat, hanging shimmery over the pavement. The kind of day where you’d want to hang out on the edge of the ocean, sinking your bare feet into the packed wet sand, knocking back a few brews.

In other words, the kind of day that would be perfect to spend right here.

I take out the package from my truck. I only had single-guy wrapping paper—blue and white stripes—and no bow, but then again, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of giving her something since our alliance is over now. Over—that word kind of feels like an ice cube down my back.

She’s wiping the table when I come back in and shakes her head when she sees the gift. “You shouldn’t have done that, Jack. I feel guilty now that I didn’t get you anything.”

“Are you kidding me? The dinners you made me, the snack breaks, the great company? Not to mention the...um, you know.”

I’m glad to see her eyes sparkle a little at that. “That was a mutual gift.”

“Anyway—here. Open it.” I hold out the package and she takes it, sliding her finger underneath the folded edge and unwrapping it carefully. Her lips part—God, that mouth—as she makes this little surprised inhale and looks up at me. “You took a picture of me?”

I’m not going to tell her that this is another mutual gift—so I can look at her anytime I want.

“Yeah. It was that day I met you down at the water—when you explained what that stack of rocks was. Hope you don’t now consider me some kind of creeper.”

“You mean more than I already do?”

I chalk her up an air point. “Ha. Score for Callaway. Just so you know, the photo was a spur of the moment kind of thing. I was heading down to see you, and the scene looked like a painting: glittery water, bright sun, girl rocking an orange bikini...the closer I got to it, the more awesome it looked. I had to capture it.”

“It’s a beautiful shot. I mean, not me—just the scene.”

“You are what makes it beautiful, Callaway.”

Shit. There I go again, letting the words out of my mouth before I analyze what impact they might have. The way she’s looking at me, I have to bring this train back to the station before it gets totally derailed. “Anyway, I think it came out really nice. I like the contrast in it—the gray of the sand with your orange bathing suit, the wildness of the ocean with the solid vibe that rock stack gives off.”

“Cairn,” she says, the ghost of a smile flickering on her lips.

“Right—cairn. I still need to look that up.” I’m staring at her, wanting to memorize the little dent between her eyes she gets when she’s troubled or concentrating hard, wanting to remember the renegade pieces of her hair that are always sneaking out of captivity.

This sucks, because I’m really going to miss her eyelashes. And the dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose.

Whoa. Jack, buddy. Time to get off the train. “Hey, I really should be getting home. But thanks for the coffee. And everything.”

Callaway puts her hand on my arm. My heart feels like I’ve got a woodworking vise clamping down on it. “Jack—before you go, I just want you to know that being with you has been the most intense five weeks of my life. I’m glad you were the first person I was with after my divorce.” Her words sound choked. “And it wasn’t just about the sex. I hope you know that. I—I really like you.”

I respond slowly, carefully. “I really like you, too, Madeline.”

“Remember when I told you what I was afraid of? Being betrayed again?”

“I remember.”

“I’m changing it.”

I want and don’t want to hear this.

Madeline’s holding me with her eyes which are big and dewy, like a doe’s. “My biggest fear is losing you.”

I don’t know what the fuck to say. I just stand there, looking down at her, hoping by some miracle I’ll come up with a few words that might make this easier. They don’t come, but luckily she saves my ass and brings this scene to a close by reaching out to shake my hand. This definitely doesn’t feel like enough, so I bend down, breathing in the sweet smell of her hair and pulling her in to me for a tight hug.

It was at least ten seconds.