Jules
The diamond seems bigger than it is, weighing down my hand with a phantom twinge of pain, as if there’s an actual ball and chain attached to it. Jewelry shouldn’t make my chest ache like this, but the longer I stare at Chris’ ring on my finger, the deeper the knife in my heart twists.
Funny, how I thought I removed that dagger two months ago. Okay, maybe not two months ago, as the breakup had been too raw, the history too long, the heartache too consuming.
Until Cash.
Until the simple touch of his hand and the longing in his stormy eyes edged out thoughts of my ex. It only takes a moment to change the course of one’s life and meeting Cash Montgomery was a doozy.
I wiggle my fingers, transfixed by the diamond’s shimmer caught in the sunlight pouring through the living room window. I don’t know why I haven’t taken it off yet. Lord knows it doesn’t belong on my finger. I have no explanation for this dreamlike trance I’ve fallen into, except that I waited so long to hear him say the words, to get on bended knee and put the promise of forever on my finger in all its shimmering glory—a token as beautiful, solid, and endless as our love.
My stupor shatters, and I pull at the ring, but the damn thing won’t slide past my knuckle. Already on the verge of illogical panic, I startle when someone knocks on the door.
Again.
My pulse is a violent drum in my ears as I cast a glance at the front entrance, unease bouncing around my gut like a rubber ball as if I’m about to get caught cheating on a test.
This feels like a test, like a sick and twisted game fate is playing to win, because I know the person on the other side of that door is Cash. I can feel it.
And I’m stuck in limbo with another man’s ring on my finger while my boss is rapping on my door again, his impatience apparent in the heavy cadence of his fist against the barrier of wood.
I make my way to the door, fling it open, and one look at him sends heat splashing down my neck and across my breasts. On the outside, he’s the personification of CEO in his suit, with his dark hair meticulously combed, gray tie knotted at his throat, cuffs fastened around his wrists. He’s wearing his boss expression, but the way he’s gripping a manilla folder in his hand—tight enough to whiten his knuckles—tells me he’s on the edge of losing it. His steel gaze veers over my shoulder.
“He already left,” I say, opening the door to let him in.
As soon as he’s inside, he sets the folder down and wraps me in his bone-tired heat. “He upset you. What did he say?” His words are a low, hot murmur against my hair as his arms tighten around me.
I pull back and show him the ring, fighting tears of frustration and even sorrow. Just because I’ve let a dream go doesn’t mean it no longer sears. “He asked me to marry him.”
Cash’s arms drop from my waist, and he stumbles into retreat-mode, face cut from despair. “You said yes?”
“I couldn’t say anything. He put it on my finger then left, and now”—with a hitch of my breath, I try tugging on the ring—“the stupid thing won’t come off!” Hysteria is rising fast, and I’m not sure how to stop it from overflowing.
Cash’s expression softens as he takes my hand. He leads me through my bedroom to the bathroom and grabs the lotion I have sitting on the vanity before pumping a dollop into his palm. Then his fingers are massaging the moisturizer into my trembling left hand. He works slowly, his brows drawn together in determination, as if getting this token of someone else’s love for me off my finger is the most important thing in the world.
With a hard swallow, he tugs the ring over my knuckle and slides it off before setting it on the counter. A tinny ding resounds in the bathroom. “I never dreamed I’d end up taking another man’s ring off your finger.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, the apology a gut reaction to the sadness marring his features.
His eyes dart to mine, sharp with surprise. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Jules.”
“I know how upsetting it is.” I smooth my thumb over the wedding band circling his finger. “This ring is a constant reminder that you’re not mine.” I blink the burn from my eyes, hating myself for my over-emotional response. I’d blame lack of sleep, but truth be told, he brings it out in me.
Cradling my face between his hands, he backs me out of the bathroom. The flick of his gaze toward my bed is dangerous, and as he lowers his head, lips parted a hairsbreadth away from mine, I know we’re too close to trouble with a capital T. We might as well capitalize the whole fucking alphabet.
“I am yours,” he says right before his mouth closes the distance. His lips are gentle against mine at first, but then his tongue breaks past my defenses, and he pushes his fingers into my hair as we stumble across my bedroom, kiss deepening. Moans escalating. Chests rising and falling too fast as the backs of my knees hit the mattress.
He’s pushing up my skirt and working at my buttons when I brace a hand against his chest.
“I can’t do this,” I say, tearing my mouth from his.
Brows narrow over hurt eyes as he backs away and puts a good six feet between us. “Do you still love him?”
My lids flutter in surprise. “What?”
“I need you to be honest with me, Jules. The two of you have a history.”
“So do you and your wife.”
He winces, and I wish I could rewind the last few seconds of this conversation. “That wasn’t an answer.”
“What do you want me to say? Of course I still care about him. But he’s not…he doesn’t make me feel the way you do.”
Letting out a breath, he drags both hands through his hair, leaving it in the perfect state of messy that I can’t help but love on him.
I’m tempted to remove his jacket and tie, and roll up his cuffs, because he’s too put-together for a man who seems on the verge of coming undone. He’s too put-together for Cash. The way he wears his corporate rebellion, like it’s second nature, is sexy as sin.
Silence stretches between us, rife with impossibilities and longing and regrets.
“Do you want me to leave?” He’s gentleman enough to ask the question, but his tone is heavy with reluctance.
“I don’t want you to go, but…” My gaze veers to the side, and the sight of the nightstand where his sunflower bouquet sat hours ago hurts clear to the bone.
I’ve had a whole night to put some space between me and the memory of us in bed. It doesn’t matter that the sheets still smell like him because I couldn’t bring myself to change them—being with him like that again will only make it harder to watch him walk away once more.
“But?” he gently prompts.
“But later, you’ll leave, and I can’t be with you like that today to hold back tomorrow.”
His shoulders set in defeat, and I know exactly how he feels. “I understand,” he says. “I’m not giving up, but I get it.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“The only place we can go.” He backs toward the open door of my bedroom. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work.”
A thick lump of hurt swells in my throat, rendering me unable to speak, so I nod instead.
“I’m going to go now, before I can’t.”
“Okay.” I’m staring at his feet, too fucking close to tears. And I don’t want to cry because I know he’s not leaving by choice.
He’s not Chris.
“Jules.”
At the insistent way he says my name, I raise my head. He grabs hold of the doorframe, anchoring himself to the spot.
“This isn’t over.”
“I know.”
I also know he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Five endless seconds later, he’s gone.