I spot my client at the far end of the bar, sitting at the counter with a drink in front of her. Noticing me, she raises her hand in greeting, and I start to make my way over to her. The room is as busy as the hotel is, filled with people in professional attire, which I’m assuming has something to do with the sign that was in the lobby the day I arrived, welcoming the attendees of some sort of medical conference—I forget which specialty.

Caroline looks at ease, sitting there in her casual summer dress, sipping her drink. She could easily be the owner of the place, making sure it operates smoothly. Or a queen, surveying her domain.

As I take a seat on the stool next to hers, she asks me my drink preference, and when I tell her a gin and tonic, she flags down the bartender and orders for me. While she banters and borderline flirts with the young and cute guy, I’m wondering again why she texted me a couple of hours ago to request this meeting. Need to talk, was all she wrote then, which struck me as ominous. There’s nothing in her face at the moment to give me any hints.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” she finally says, flattening her lips. “I can’t believe I lost control like that. It’s infuriating that he knows exactly how to push my buttons.”

“Trust me, I get it.” My stomach clenches as memories flash through my mind. Logan’s face, twisting with fury and determination. Saying we were not a mistake. That he wants me back.

And then putting his hands on me.

Feeling flushed, I clear my throat. “So does that mean the rest of your hike went okay?”

She nods. “We made a deal the first day here: no discussing divorce issues without our attorneys. So yeah, it was fine.”

“That’s good.” Too bad I can’t say the same for myself.

At least I made it back to the cabin on my own. Then I spent the rest of the afternoon hiding in my room. Which I know makes me a coward, but that’s okay. If I thought there was any point to another confrontation with him, I’d suck it up and get it over with. Since there’s not, I accepted that I was being a wimp and moved on.

After getting cleaned up, I had a couple of granola bars for lunch, and then I spent the rest of the day catching up on work. And the whole time I could hear him moving around the cabin, which meant I was bracing myself for a knock on the door…which never came.

As soon as the front door shut, I ordered dinner from room service, and while I waited for that to show up, I Skyped with my kids again. Then Caroline’s message arrived, and I got busy getting myself ready to go out in public, throwing on the outfit I brought just in case I needed to dress up at some point on this vacation: a red floral lace bodycon dress with black strappy heels. It’s been a while since I’ve dressed to go out, and I know I look good right now. It feels great.

“Do you have anything planned with him tomorrow?” I ask my client, because I’m tired of being blindsided by how much she’s socializing with her husband.

“Negotiate the rest of the settlement in the morning, and then he’s rented a boat for us to go out on the lake the rest of the day.” After taking a drink from her cocktail, Caroline blows out a breath. “God, I feel so bad for dragging you out here, away from your family, for this, and then leaving you to yourself most of the time.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The bartender places my glass in front of me, and I pause to smile and thank him before I continue to reassure her. “I never have problems staying occupied. And my family’s doing fine without me. I just Skyped with my kids, and the first thing they did was give me a long list of how everyone’s spoiling them.”

The more I think about how this has played out, the more grateful I am for the timing of it. If I hadn’t been on vacation at my parents’ house, getting away would’ve been much tougher. My babysitting options would’ve been Mike or Miranda, and on such short notice, I’d be lucky to get either one to do it.

“Good.” The older woman’s smile seems almost wistful, and not for the first time I wonder if she and Garnett are childless by choice. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of being rude enough to ask, and honestly, I'm counting my blessings. The thought of adding custody issues to this case makes me want to vomit. Bad enough I have that headache in my own life.

“We have the cabins until Friday,” she tells me, swishing her straw around in her drink, “but if we wrap things up in the morning, then you can head out as soon as we’re done if you want.”

Get out of here and away from Logan by tomorrow afternoon? Yes, please. “Okay,” I reply, trying hard not to sound too relieved. “I’ll probably do that.”

My nonchalance must not have been convincing, because Caroline’s expression sharpens, measuring me. Hoping to evade further scrutiny, I lift my drink up to my lips and glance around the room. It’s like a typical scene of hotel bars everywhere: people at various stages of intoxication, pretending they’re here to unwind and make conversation, when what they’re really doing is trying to get laid.

“How are you and Logan getting along?” my client asks, and somehow she makes it sound like an innocent inquiry, but I know better.

“Fine. No problems.” I’m not stupid enough to think she’ll be fooled by my breezy tone, but what else can I say? It’s not like I’m going to start unloading my baggage on her. Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—that would be grossly unprofessional.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she says. “I’d hate to think working—and living—with him was causing you stress.”

“You definitely don’t need to worry about me.” Desperate to change the topic, I ask, “Was there anything specific you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Yeah.” Caroline’s face tightens. “It’s something I should’ve told you sooner.”

Uh-oh. My skin crawls with foreboding.

“The reason I’m leaving Stu,” she tells me slowly, cagily, “is I’ve met someone else.”

Say what? I’m blinking at her, unsure if I heard her correctly. She looks somewhat flustered, her color high and her eyes glittering, and I realize she did just say what I thought she did.

“Wow. Okay.” I’m at a loss for words. I guess that explains why she’s in a hurry…kind of? But I don’t understand why she’s been hiding it from me. “Why the big secret? You know, California is a no-fault state. Infidelity can’t be held against you in a divorce.”

“I know, and it’s not that.” She’s evading my gaze, which seems unlike her. “I guess Logan never told you Stu and I have an open marriage?”

Whoa. My eyes widen before I can stop myself. Open marriage? As in, they sleep with other people…with permission?

Holy crap. I always try not to be judgmental, but seriously. Their relationship gives me a stomach ache.

Thankfully, by the time she seeks my gaze again, I’ve managed to contain my reaction. “No,” I answer. “If Stu told him that, it’d be privileged.”

“Yeah. Trust me, I know how seriously you lawyers take that stuff.” She waves her hand in front of her face. “Anyway, we’ve had a polyamorous relationship since before we got married.”

“So,” I say cautiously, hesitating, because this ground feels unfamiliar and filled with landmines, “wouldn’t that make him more understanding that you’ve found someone else?”

“No.” Caroline shakes her head. “The opposite, actually. He wouldn’t take it seriously. If he knew, he wouldn’t be cooperating at all, because he’d be convinced that I’m just going through a phase. That I’ll get over it and come back to him eventually.” Tilting her drink glass and staring into it, unsmiling, she finishes with, “We’ve both had so many other relationships, but it’s always been casual, and it’s always ended.”

I arch my eyebrows. “This time is different for you, though?”

She nods. “I realized I’ve never been in love before. Not really.”

Our eyes lock, and my heart lurches at the anguish in the depths of hers. She actually doesn’t look like a woman in love. But then, she’s in the middle of a divorce, which doesn’t leave any room for simple, uncomplicated feelings like happiness and love.

It’s clear she’s been lying to her husband, though. She does still care about him.

She's just found someone else she cares about more.

“So that’s why I want this wrapped up quickly, without Stu finding out,” she explains. “Or without anything leaking to the press.”

Sure. That makes sense. I guess. “Why are you telling me this now?”

The older woman gives me a sheepish half smile. “Because I’m embarrassed about what happened this morning, and I’m embarrassed about not trusting you with the truth.”

“Okay.” I give her an assessing look, still feeling that something doesn’t add up. “And that’s everything you haven’t told me?”

Her lips parting and her eyes shifting, she seems on the verge of saying something else, something I suspect is significant. But instead she shakes her head. “That’s all I wanted to talk about, yeah.”

I’m frowning. She’s being evasive. It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out that she didn’t exactly answer my question.

“Anyway,” she says briskly, “I called Johanna just an hour ago, and I told her I couldn’t be happier with how you’re handling this.”

Yeah, that’s definitely a deliberate change of topic. And it works, because my chest warms and swells.

She asks me about my time as an intern for Johanna, and we chat about that for a while until she gets a phone call. After answering and telling the person she’ll call them back, she lets me know it’s her PA and that she needs to go take it in private, but I should feel free to stay—and make sure to put my drinks on her tab. After the requisite good-night-see-you-tomorrows, she walks out.

And then I’m alone in the hotel bar, facing a choice: leave and spend the rest of the evening by myself in my room in the cabin, because I sure as hell am not going to risk running into Logan.

Or I can stay, with the knowledge that sitting by myself at the bar I might as well hang a sign around my neck saying, Come talk to me.

I catch the bartender’s eye. He arches a brow at me—just one, and oh, my god, it's sexy—and I curve my lips in response. After placing a tumbler in front of an older guy in a Hawaiian shirt, he approaches.

“You look like you’re ready for more,” he says, and I know I’m not imagining the innuendo in his tone.

“Yes, please.” I nudge my glass toward him, watching the way his black dress shirt clings to his hefty shoulders and arms as he turns away.

Yes, please.

Heat floods my chest, fanning up my neck and into my cheeks. Little pinpricks of thrill skitter over my skin. It’s a sensation that’s equal parts startling and enjoyable. Yes, I’ve gone out since my separation, usually with Beth. Yes, I’ve had opportunities to flirt.

And no, I haven’t wanted to. Now, suddenly, it’s appealing again. Why?

Maybe because of what happened with Logan this morning? Maybe I need to prove to myself that I’m capable of feeling something, anything, for a man who’s not him? Even if it’s just lust.

Or maybe one drink was enough and I really shouldn't have another one right now. Ugh.

My enthusiasm is dampened enough that I only offer a quick smile and murmured thanks when the bartender puts my second gin and tonic in front of me. My tepid response doesn’t kill the spark in his eye, but he moves on without a word, and I pluck my phone out of my clutch.

Sipping my drink, I check my email—still nothing from Luna, sigh—and then I spend more time than I usually do scrolling through social media. Which might be a really bad idea right now, because twice I catch myself on the verge of responding to comments from trolls, stuff I shouldn’t even be reading let alone considering replying to.

Never drink and Facebook. It’s a rule of mine, and I almost just broke it. Disgusted, I close the app and put my phone down. Lifting my glass to my lips, I glance around the room. My scan stops on a couple of guys seated at the opposite side of the bar. They have that conference attendee look about them with their dress shirts and slacks—casual but still professional.

The guy on the left is completely bald even though I doubt he’s much over forty, which means he’s the kind of guy who had thinning hair and decided to go the nuclear route rather than messing around with comb-overs or transplants. The other one has a full head of dark hair, pale eyes, and a dimpled chin. He’s definitely not hard on the eyes.

I find my gaze drawn to him…until his wanders across the room, and he catches me. I tamp down hard on my urge to avert my eyes. Yeah, I was staring. But I’m a big girl. I’ll own it.

So I stay fixed on him while his forehead creases, keep watching as surprise passes over his face. I don’t even look away as he says something to his companion before sliding off his seat and weaving his way around the bar toward me.

And then he’s standing before me, approximately six feet of lean, athletic maleness.

Okay, here it comes. Is he going to be cheesy? Smarmy? Funny? Or just awkward? I hold my breath, delicately arching my brows as I meet his gaze.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He just stares at me—and my eyebrows creep higher. What the hell?

“Can I help you with anything?” I finally say mildly.

“Nah,” he replies, tilting his head slightly. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

“Excuse me?” I splutter with an unamused chuckle. Guess I forgot to wonder if he was going to be rude.

Palms up, he widens his eyes at me. “Well, I mean, there’s gotta be something wrong with you. Why else would a woman like you be sitting here by yourself?”

Oooh, okay. He’s going for disarmingly charming and funny.

It shouldn’t work on me. I should be rolling my eyes. But instead my chest fills with a heat that rushes up my neck and into my cheeks, a prickly and flushed and embarrassing pleasure.

Grasping for composure, I sit up straighter and make a show of raking my gaze around the crowded bar. “Maybe everyone else knows something you don’t,” I offer with a smile, trying for teasing and provocative.

He apparently takes that as an invitation to sit down, resting his undoubtedly tight ass on the stool and putting his bottle on the bar. As he leans toward me, I catch a whiff of him—of beer and of something fresh and clean, like soap or shaving cream, and underneath all of that, a hint of musk. The smell of him, of a man. I want to move closer and inhale more deeply.

“And what is it they know?” he asks in a low tone, his disturbingly intense eyes boring into me.

Ohmygod. What do I say? This could be going someplace hot and heavy in a hurry if I allow it. Do I want that? I don’t know.

Actually, I’m really not in the mood for games, I realize. I feel old all of a sudden—tired and jaded. Like flirting and teasing is for young people, and pretending I’m someone I’m not doesn’t sound even a little bit fun.

So let’s see if the truth scares this guy away.

“Maybe they can tell that I’m separated from my husband, in the middle of a messy divorce, and that I have three kids under the age of ten?” I say, arching my eyebrows.

He blinks at me, clearly taken aback. Something flickers in his eyes. Indecision, probably. He’s asking himself if I’m worth it or if he should just get the hell out now.

“Their loss,” he announces with a shrug, straightening on his stool and flashing a quick grin.

Okay, then. I eye him cautiously, trying to gauge if his chill reaction is a good thing.

“Graham Weber,” he says, sticking his hand out. “Divorced, no kids.”

Responding with my own name, I lift my hand and let him take it. He has a warm, firm grip and big hands. I imagine them roaming my body, slowly and thoroughly caressing me, arousing me. Suddenly I’m a little breathless.

“You here for the conference?” he inquires.

“No, I’m here for a case. I’m an attorney.” At his mild frown, I explain, “Eccentric, high-maintenance clients. Long story that I can’t share.”

Nodding, he picks up his beer and takes a drink.

“You’re here for the conference, though?” I ask, feeling like I should share the responsibility of keeping the conversation going. “What is it exactly?”

So then he tells me that it’s a cardiology symposium, and I half expect him to launch into a boastful speech about his career and his accomplishments, but instead he says, “How about I get you another drink?”

I know I shouldn’t. The edges of my vision are going soft, and my head is getting fuzzy. I’m definitely tipsy. But I’m a Waters, and we pride ourselves on being able to hold our drink. Besides, the alcohol is doing a great job of dulling the pain in my muscles. They’re getting just as sore as I feared they would.

I accept, and after he orders another gin and tonic for me and a beer for himself, the bartender shuffles off to get our drinks—after throwing me another flirtatious look; he’s not easily deterred, apparently.

“So is this conference an annual thing, and is it always here?” I ask casually.

“Yes, and no. New location every year, but it’s always a tourist resort like this—last year it was at Disneyland.” His smile turns rueful, and I get distracted by his lips. They have perfect proportions. He could be a lip model.

“I think the whole thing is just an excuse for people to write off their vacations,” he goes on, “because there’s not much worthwhile otherwise.”

“Then why are you here?” I blurt out.

“Why, since I don’t have a family to bring?” he replies, his voice tart and self-deprecating.

Mortification flares in my chest, fanning heat into my cheeks. That’s not what I meant. “No, I—”

“I’m teasing,” he interrupts with laughter in his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. To answer your question, I come to catch up with old acquaintances, mostly. And this year I was invited to be the keynote speaker.”

I widen my eyes, impressed. The bartender brings our drinks, and this time I avoid locking eyes with the guy. Then I throw Graham an apologetic look. “Sorry. Wrong day for small talk.” As he raises his brows in question, I add, “Personal stuff.”

“‘Separated, three kids’ kind of stuff?”

Ugh. I can’t help grimacing. I know I’m the one who volunteered that information, but why did he have to go there?

Tossing down a swallow of his beer, he eyes me over the bottle. “Figured I’d move on to the big talk.”

I shoot him a wry look. “I’m three drinks in already. Pretty sure that kind of talk is too big right now.”

“Nah. Never a better time. Think of it as truth serum.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say with a chuckle. Time to redirect again. “Why don’t you tell me about ‘divorced, no kids’?”

His cheerfulness evaporates, and a shadow creeps into his eyes. “That story’s kind of a downer.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” I counter, curious now.

So then he starts telling me about how he met his wife in college, how they clicked from day one, how they were the loves of each other’s lives, and I listen intently, taking occasional sips of my drink and watching Graham’s face and deciding I really like him. He’s funny and charming and obviously smart—hello? keynote speaker?—and he’s attractive in an understated kind of way.

As he reaches the post-college-married-bliss part of his tale, though, I catch movement in the corner of my eye, shapes that look familiar. Glancing slantways across the bar, I see them immediately: Logan and Stuart Garnett. They’re taking a seat at the counter, deep in conversation—meaning Garnett is talking and Logan is listening with an unmistakably annoyed expression.

Quickly, I refocus on the guy next to me, determined to pretend I haven’t seen my ex and his client arrive.

And then I get distracted as Graham gets to the meat of his story. Apparently things began to go downhill as they struggled with infertility. My mouth turning down and sympathy twisting, I listen to him describe the treatments and the setbacks and the heartache. I’ve had several divorce clients whose marriages fell apart due to infertility. It can be a terrible strain.

“Finally, the second round of IVF worked, and she got pregnant,” he says sadly. “All our prayers answered, right?” He sighs, and I brace myself. It still feels like a gut punch when he tells me they lost the baby at twenty weeks. My neck prickling with horror, I just watch him with big eyes as he wraps it up quickly: the grief drove them apart, and eventually they agreed that a split would be best for both of them.

“See?” he says with humor that seems brittle. “A total downer.”

I shake my head, a grunt of commiseration and distress tearing itself from my throat. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. That’s just…awful.”

“No need to say anything.” He gives me a warm smile, and I find myself mirroring it. There’s an ease and openness about him that’s hugely appealing.

We descend into silence, and Logan’s presence returns to me. I can feel him there, pulling at me, tempting me to look. Has he noticed I’m here? Probably.

He probably also has feelings and opinions about my sitting here chatting with another guy like this. I try to feel smug about it. This morning he seemed to think I’ve done nothing this past year except sit around and pine for him. Claiming I need him.

Well, actually, babe, I don’t. See? You’re not the only man in the world.

But there’s no satisfaction in it. Instead there’s a breathless and burning sense of shame and guilt, churning in my stomach. Yeah, we’re separated, but he’s still my husband. I feel like I’m cheating on him. Why do I feel like I’m cheating? It’s stupid and disgusting, but I can’t quell it, and it’s frustrating almost to the point of tears. How long am I going to keep feeling stuck like this?

Giving a small cough, I put on a brave face and tell Graham, “Well, you definitely put my problems in perspective. They seem trivial in comparison.”

“It’s not a competition, Paige.” Spoken by his deep and mellow voice, my name sounds like a caress. “You fell in love with this guy. You married him. Had three kids with him…?”

The last part he turns into a question, and I'm momentarily nonplussed when I realize it’s not a given that my kids all have the same father. I give a short nod, with my head swimming and a bitter taste on my tongue. The threat of tears is looming, larger than ever. It’s time to get out of here.

“And now what you had with him is slipping away,” he goes on. “That’s not trivial.”

No. No, it’s not. “Are you always this perceptive?” I ask mildly.

He grins. “Wait until I’ve had a couple more drinks.”

Despite myself, I laugh at that. Then I notice my phone buzzing, and asking him to excuse me, I pick it up and look at the screen.

It’s a text. From Logan.

Is that guy going to give you what you need? Or is he going to run scared when he finds out who you really are, Good Girl?

Oh, my God. I forget how to breathe. It’s like my chest is caving in. Damn him. Good Girl? He said it earlier, too. Until today, how long had it been since he called me that? Years and years. The manipulative son of a bitch.

Feeling flushed and brittle, I switch off the screen without responding, and with shaky hands, I tuck the phone back into my clutch. I don’t look at Logan. I refuse to. It’s what he wants, and he’s not getting it.

“I’m actually ready to call it a night,” I say to Graham with a regretful smile. “Thanks for the drink and the conversation. I really enjoyed it.”

He appears taken aback, his eyes flicking to my purse, obviously wondering if the text message has something to do with my abandoning ship so suddenly. “Mind if I walk you to your room?” he asks after a second, and then he raises his palms defensively. “Only because I don’t want to be done talking to you. Swear to God.”

I blink, trying to come up with an excuse. Not because I want to get away from him. I just don’t see any point to it. Logan’s message hit home. I’m still not ready. I probably won’t be ready, not until I’m well and truly divorced.

“I’m actually staying in a cabin,” is all I can think to say through my alcohol-fogged brain.

“All the more reason to not walk there by yourself,” he argues. So persistent.

Well, why not?

With a quick smile, I agree.