Chapter One

Rowan

“Smile through it, darling.” My mother’s signature adage echoes in my mind as I bite my lip to keep from crying. The polished marble floor of Rhett’s master bath chills the bottoms of my feet. He’s pounding on the other side of the door, and I want to be anywhere but here.

“Rowan, you okay?” His voice is muffled and distant, and yet it’s right there. “Talk to me. Unlock the door.”

He doesn’t care if I’m okay, he only wants to ensure I’m not a liability.

“Yes,” I call, squeezing my eyes until the burn subsides. I slip into clean clothes and gather my things in a hurry, shoving my toothbrush, mascara, and lip balm into my overnight bag before scanning the room one last time. Anything left behind will be thrown away, I’m sure. Rhett twists the doorknob, and I’m beginning to wonder who broke up with whom. “Be out in a minute.”

Ten hours ago it was just another Friday night bent over his bed, my wrists secured with his necktie as he helped himself to my body. Rhett stole his pleasure from me as if I belonged to him, and I did belong to him. I loved him.

Still do.

This morning over coffee, he told me I looked sexy in his unbuttoned dress shirt, hair tousled in my eyes and his lingering taste on my tongue. And then he told me we were over. Just like that. Like we were discussing the weather. His senate campaign kicks off soon, and he can’t have any casual relationships sullying his whistle-clean reputation.

I experience his words once more, letting them sink into the deepest parts of me all over again, and pressure builds in my chest. They were so abrupt; a zero to sixty ending for a zero to sixty beginning.

“You knew this would come to an end at some point, right?” he’d said, lifting a coffee mug to his full lips. His sandy hair was neatly combed and parted on one side, and his suit jacket rested on the back of his chair, neatly folded in half. He was going somewhere; somewhere I wasn’t invited because our relationship has always been below the radar for a myriad of reasons; all of which I assumed were temporary. “What we had was fun, Rowan, but now it’s time to work. Fun’s over. You understand, don’t you?”

The jostling handle quiets, replaced with heavy breathing on the other side. There’s a soft thump, as if he’s slumped against the outside of the door, then a moment later, the floor creaks.

“Your cab’s downstairs.” His voice is low, ice cold. “Meter’s running.”

So this is how it ends.

I give myself another minute to gather my composure, take a deep breath, and sling my bag over my shoulder. Twisting the knob until the lock pops, I brace myself for what lies on the other side.

Only it isn’t Rhett. He’s gone.

His bed is made. His room is cold. All traces of us have been removed, including the vase of red roses he’d given me three days ago.

When I reach the main level of his townhome, he isn’t there either. A taped note on the front door bears my hastily scribbled name across the front.

Rowan,

Forgive me for leaving. You must think I’m a terrible human being, but the truth is I’m just terrible at goodbyes.

Eighty-four weekends ago we were two strangers in a bar, trying to escape our fates like we had any say in the matter. What you saw in me, I’ll never understand. But I’ll tell you now like I told you then, you deserve more than what I can give you.

Someday you’re going to find a man who will make you forget I existed. And I’ll see you with him. And I’ll miss what we had. And it will hurt because we’ll be strangers all over again. But then I’ll smile because you’re happy, just like I knew you would be. And I’ll know that everything worked out for the greater good.

I wish I could give you more of me. I’m sorry.

Rhett

It’s bullshit. All of it. I crumple the letter and toss it on the foyer floor. Politicians and heartfelt apologies are a glaring contradiction.

But I can’t blame him for everything. Rhett Harrison was raging waters, and I dove in head first, knowing full well I couldn’t swim. I’ll let myself gasp for air. I’ll let myself feel the water in my lungs and the threat of looming darkness. Then I’ll thrash my way to the surface, choking and desperate to breathe, and I’ll be better for it. I’ll never let another man hurt me the way he did ever again. It’s going to take time, but I can do this.

I can seal my heart until it’s airtight.

But for now, I need to forget.

I need to forget the burn of his lips on my skin, the pull of my hair in his fist, and the countless breathless sighs when he almost told me he loved me, and all those moments I silently whispered it back, like a fool.

Chapter Two

Rowan

There’s a dangerous glint in Keir Montgomery’s eyes, and finding myself in the center of his attention is exactly where I want to be. Spinning my glass between my thumb and forefinger, I glance away, removing my stare from his broad, suited shoulders and facing the bartender instead. From the corner of my eye, I observe as he moves closer to me, my intentional disregard luring him in like a magnet.

A moment later, his presence fills my periphery as he stands beside the empty bar stool on my left. I lift my crystal tumbler to my lips, pretending I don’t notice him when every fiber of my body is reeling. I’m practically sending out shockwaves over here, but my exterior is a crafted shade of calm.

“Excuse me,” his voice is carried through sensual lounge music and followed by the invasion of his old-moneyed cologne into my lungs.

“Yes?” Glancing up, I meet his gaze, blinking once as I stare at him through dark, painted lashes.

I pretend not to notice the swarm of Secret Service Agents flanking his sides. And now mine. I pretend his familiar face doesn’t register and that I haven’t seen his obsidian hair or crystalline blues in hundreds of photos before. I pretend not to know he’s the youngest son of the President of the United States. I pretend he’s just any other guy in any other bar in any other city.

And I pretend I didn’t come here looking for him.

“Is this seat taken?” He asks the question as if the answer doesn’t matter, as if he has no problem taking exactly what he wants even if it belongs to someone else.

My heart flutters for a fraction of a second, and my eyes flick from his wickedly handsome smirk to the seat and back.

“All yours,” I say, taking my time and swiveling my stool until I’m no longer facing him. Fighting a smile, I brace myself for the inevitable pat I’m going to feel on my shoulder any moment now.

Drawing in three breaths, I wait for a tap that never comes. The bartender hunches over, resting on his elbows as he yells above the music. The president’s son orders a drink. Whiskey. Neat. The restless stir of impatience floods my center, but I refuse to let it ruin my strategy.

All I need is one night with him. One night to feel alive. One night to feel desired again. One night to rebel against everything I ever thought I was.

Two weeks ago Rhett walked out of my life, and my heart has been screaming to forget him ever since. It hasn’t been as easy as I thought it was going to be. And that’s why I’m here.

I observe from the corner of my eye as the man fixes Keir’s drink at warp speed, delivers it on the house, and then stops short in front of me.

“Would you like another, miss?” he asks, thick brows lifted as he points to my empty glass.

“Please.” I slide it his way. He swipes it from the counter and shuffles down a few spots.

Rapping my fingertips against the counter, I wait for my refill, finish half, and contemplate my Plan B because I don’t have all night. If Keir didn’t just infiltrate my space for the sake of hitting on me, I’ll have to take a different approach. Gathering my black satin clutch, I unsnap the top and pretend to check my phone. When I’m sure he’s watching, I slide my bag under my left arm and gracefully slide off the stool.

Striding across the dark-as-midnight Goldsmith bar, I dip into the ladies’ room to buy some time. Touching up my lipstick and powdering my nose and dabbing perfume onto the backs of my wrists and behind my ears, I check the time on my phone and wait an extra minute before reemerging.

Keir has a reputation. He’s a womanizer with a healthy appetite for casual liaisons. I’ve done my research. I know where he frequents; Goldsmith being his signature hang out followed by Greenbrier. I know his modus operandi. I know what turns him on, and I know what makes him run for the hills.

It’s now or never.

Either this is going to happen. Or it isn’t.

And I really, really want this to happen. I need this to happen for reasons no one could possibly begin to understand. I need his hands in my hair. His lips pressed hard against mine. My body pinned beneath his. I need him driving himself into me again and again, so hard I forget my name. Forget where I am. Forget why it hurts . . .

Giving myself a final once-over in the mirror, I tuck a blonde wave over my right shoulder and pull the door wide.

Almost instantly, my lips draw up in the corners and our eyes meet. “I was wondering when you were going to make your move.”

“You’re a distraction,” he says, his eyes wild and trained on me.

I smirk. “I beg your pardon?”

“I came here for a drink. Was supposed to meet someone,” he says. “And then I saw you.”

I try to contain the frivolous satisfaction building deep in my chest before it radiates from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.

“Bold,” I say, pushing past him. If this is going to work, he needs to chase me. Men don’t like to be pursued, especially men like Keir.

“Maybe I didn’t want you to get away.” He reaches for me, clamping his hand around my wrist and steering me to a dark corner as a group of women in tight dresses push past us with wide, staring eyes. He doesn’t so much as blink in their direction. “Not before I had my chance.”

“Your chance?” I try not to snicker, though I love the direction we’re headed. “What makes you think you have a chance?”

His gaze holds mine. I allow his aftershave to drown my senses as my hands ache to touch the body of a man they’ve never known.

“I’m Keir,” he says.

“I know,” I say. “I’m Rowan.”

“I know.”

It takes everything I have to keep my jaw from coming unhinged.

“You’re that Aldridge girl,” he says. His stare is magnetic, unapologetic. “Your parents worked on my father’s last campaign. You were away in college. They showed me pictures. A guy doesn’t forget a face like that.”

That had to have been four years ago.

“You want to get out of here?” he asks.

The background blurs, and I exhale. I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s dreamier in person than I anticipated, and he makes me feel like the only girl in the room.

“It’s loud, and I want to talk to you,” he adds. “And everyone’s staring at us. Do you want everyone to stare at us?”

I shake my head.

“Then come with me.” He slips his hand into mine and nods at one of his agents. In an instant, we’re slipping out the back door and climbing into a black SUV. His hand rests on my knee as we ride. Everything’s happening so fast.

The city lights are a blur outside the passenger windows, and within minutes, the SUV stops in front of a brick building called The Hightower. One of the agents leaves the front seat and gets the door. Keir climbs out first, then he takes my hand. None of this feels real, and I remind myself this is what I came for.

He pulls me close against him, the heat from our bodies mixing. His lips lift in one corner, a dimple flashing, and he leans in. My heart flutters. He says nothing, only exhales. His breath is warm against my cheek, and the second we step onto the elevator his thumb caresses the inside of my wrist with slow, deliberate strokes. Keir hasn’t taken his hands, or his eyes, off me since we left the bar.

The elevator doors part, and his agents lead us to an apartment at the end of a hall. Keir swipes his key card and the lock beeps. The men wait outside, and we disappear into a dark apartment with a twinkling view of Washington, DC. It’s almost romantic. But I didn’t seek Keir Montgomery because I wanted hearts and flowers and moonlit city skyscapes.

I have an agenda, and I’m sticking to it. I won’t let a little dreamy ambience throw me off my game.

“Drink?” he asks, moving toward a cart against the wall. This man wastes zero time.

“Please.” I place my clutch on a kitchen island and make my way toward the floor to ceiling windows in the living room. I’ve never seen the city from these heights before. Everything seems smaller, less significant. Down below, hundreds of thousands of people are doing hundreds of thousands of things, but up here, it’s just the two of us and we’re a world away from it all.

Keir gently brushes my shoulder, my drink in his hand, and I take it from him.

“Thank you.” I take a sip, tasting rum and sugared lime, and my eyes rest in his.

“I always got the impression you were a good girl,” he says. “I mean, with your parents being who they are and all . . .”

“Can we not talk about them tonight?” I pull another sip and let it linger on my tongue, anticipating the burn, and it feels like a metaphor for this moment.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Anything but them.” If my father and mother knew I was running around downtown DC in little black dress and screw-me heels, tossing back mixed drinks like I’d done it a hundred times before, they’d have a coronary and a conniption fit, respectively. World renowned parenting experts, their enviable success has been propelled by their highly conservative political affiliations. Together they’ve built a multi-million-dollar empire, complete with workshops, handbooks, textbooks, talk shows, and an endorsement from Oprah Winfrey herself. Their picture perfect family is their brand, and as the oldest Aldridge daughter, I’m the official brand ambassador.

During the week, I’m a button-up, philanthropic good girl, and once upon a time I was a buttoned-up, philanthropic good girl. Now she’s just a role I play, an outfit I wear, and a skin I step into and remove the second no one’s looking.

“All right,” he says, studying me. “What were you doing at Goldsmith by yourself?”

I lift a shoulder to my ear and offer a coy smile. “It looked like a nice place to have a drink, and I felt like I could use one. What about you? You stood someone up tonight.”

“I did.” His teeth graze his lower lip, as if he’s biding his time until he can finally devour me. “He’ll get over it.”

I realize now, that I haven’t thought about Rhett since we walked in here. Keir is distracting, exactly as I’d hoped, and this is a good sign.

I know enough about Keir to know he isn’t a lover, not in the literal sense of the word. He isn’t a serial monogamist. He isn’t a relationship guy or the kind who brings flowers and takes a girl out on a picnic date. He’s the guy you screw when you’re trying to get over the one who broke your heart. He’s the guy that makes you forget the other guy, the one that pushes you forward when you find yourself treading the same dark and lonely waters that once nearly drowned you.

Keir isn’t Rhett, this much I know to be true.

Rhett was a career politician with presidential aspirations, one of the youngest senators ever to be elected in Georgia. His gentle charisma, old-fashioned manners, and charming, southern burr made him feel like a safe choice. I should’ve listened when he warned me not to fall in love with him, but I stupidly assumed it was just one of those things guys said.

“What?” he asks, mouth twisted. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“What way?” My nose wrinkles. I didn’t mean to stare.

“Like I remind you of someone.”

I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “I’m thinking about how much you don’t remind me of someone.”

His eyes light. “I hope that’s a good thing, Rowan.”

“It’s a very good thing, Keir.”

Chapter Three

Keir

I tug the zipper of her dress, and she exhales, her body melting against mine as she gazes out the window before us. Rowan presses a hand against the cool glass, steadying herself, and my hand slinks up her belly and between her round breasts before stopping above her collarbone.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask. It’s called consent, and it’s called one last chance to save herself because I won’t be going easy on her. I don’t make love. I fuck. And I made that perfectly clear two minutes ago when she slipped her panties off and tossed them aside with reckless abandon and a single raised eyebrow. With her face cupped in my hand and my thumb pressed beneath her jaw, I feel her swallow. And then she nods.

Over the past hour, Rowan has informed me that her parents have no idea she’s here in the city, and they have no idea she’s ever tasted liquor. Or a man. The restrictions placed upon her are suffocating. She’s bored with convention and conservatism. She’s a rebel. A girl after my own heart.

And she hasn’t said it, but she’s a girl with a broken heart. I see it in her eyes. Those round-as-saucers baby blues that look clear through me every time she finds herself lost in thought. I don’t even think she knows she’s doing it half the time, but she is. She stares at me, and she’s here, but she isn’t.

Rowan takes the tip of my finger between her lips, gently sucking, rolling her tongue around the pad, and my cock swells, pressing against my suit pants.

“I want to make something very clear tonight, Rowan,” my voice is low against her ear. “After tonight, you’ll never hear from me again.”

“Do you promise?” She turns to face me, eyes lifted onto mine.

My mouth pulls in the corner. Seems as though there’s a very good chance we’re on the same page. Then again, this wouldn’t be the first time some pretty little thing waltzes into my life pretending to be the perfect one-night stand.

Rowan bites her lip. “I just want to have fun. I don’t want to walk out of here wondering when you’re going to call me or if you like me. I only want tonight. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Do you have any idea how many women say that?”

“I mean it.” Her palms flatten against my chest, and her eyes are stormy, and her brows furrow. “I don’t want anything from you after this.”

I tug on the sleeve of her dress until it slides down her body and pools at her feet. Her skin is hot to the touch, and her pouty, fuck-me lips are begging to be crushed. My hand lifts to her jaw, and I’m milliseconds from going in for the kill when her clutch begins to vibrate.

She pushes away from me, gazing across the room, and I exhale, releasing her from my hold.

“Take it.” I don’t disguise my annoyance.

“No, it’s okay.” She moves close to me again but her eyes are over there.

“You sure?”

Her head bobs. And then she sighs. “Just . . . give me one second. I’m sorry.”

I take a seat in an overstuffed Chesterfield armchair, watching Rowan slink across my apartment in nothing but a matching lace bra and thong set the color of sin. It’s all I can do to keep from eating my fist right now, and as soon as she’s finished with her phone call, I’m going to make her turn the fucking thing off.

“Hannah, slow down.” Rowan paces the kitchen, circling my island. “I can barely here you. Where are you?”

She ends the call a minute later and rushes across the room, grabbing at her dress on the floor by the window.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “My sister . . . she goes to Georgetown and she’s at a party, and she’s drunk, and I think she’s on something or maybe someone slipped her something. I don’t know. I could hardly understand her. I need to go find her and get her home.”

Rowan shimmies into her skintight dress, and I mourn the sexiest piece of ass I’ll never know. After she tugs everything into place, she turns to face me. Her lips part, like she’s going to say something, but she stops.

“What?” I ask.

“I was going to say call me sometime,” she says. “But I don’t want to give you my number because I don’t want to wait around for your call. And I don’t want your number either because then it’s a thing, and I don’t want to make this into a thing.”

“You’re a smart girl, Rowan Aldridge.”

She steps into her heels, her height lifting an extra several inches as she turns to face me. “Well aware.”

“You have a smart mouth,” I tell her, sipping my bourbon. “If your kid sister weren’t being such a cock block right now, I’d be putting it to good use.”

Rowan chuffs, moving toward the door. “You’re exactly like I expected.”

I begin to ask her to explain. I’ve always been curious about my reputation in this city, and I’ve yet to find a single person unafraid to give me the straight truth. But she’s gone. She doesn’t care what I have to say. The door closes behind her, and I don’t chase after her because, well, I don’t chase.

Retrieving my phone from my pocket, I drag my thumb across the screen and type her name into a search engine. I might not be running after this woman, but my curiosity is officially peaked. And that’s a first.

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