Rhett

I can still smell her perfume as Coach Harris yammers away about something or other this morning. I don’t know. I’m not really listening.

She came by last night, which marked the fourth time in the week that’s passed since we agreed to a no-strings attached arrangement, but she didn’t stay the night because she had a deadline to meet for work and was going to stay up all night finishing her project.

When she left, I stole her pillow, and this morning, I can still smell her.

Let me make this clear: I’m perfectly fine being on my own. In fact, I prefer it. But it’s kind of nice not having to be alone with my thoughts at night. In the evening, when everyone’s doing their own thing or no one wants to go out or people are too busy to reply to your text, a man can get all too acquainted with the thoughts he’d been ignoring for the better part of the day.

But that’s where Ayla comes in.

I take one look at her ... that ass ... those lips ... and I’m one hundred percent distracted.

That’s all she is—a distraction.

And that’s all she’ll ever be.

“Carson, you get that?” Coach barks in my direction. Some of the guys look my way. I overheard a few of them talking about me earlier, shocked that I could just “go on as if it never happened.”

Fuck them.

If they only knew.

“The charity event.” Shane’s on my left, whispering under his breath.

“What charity event?” I whisper back.

“For Bryce,” he says, refusing to make eye contact.

“This Friday,” Coach says. “You’re all to report to the ice at seven o’clock. We’re holding a skate-a-thon in Bryce’s name, in collaboration with the new foundation being established in his honor. Attendance is mandatory.”

In Bryce’s name?

Fuck this shit. I’m out.

My chair makes an awful screeching noise as I push it away from the table, and all eyes are on me. Coach’s wild gray brows furrow, and he’s telling me to get my ass back in there, but I’m gone. I’m done. I’m not doing a damn fucking thing to honor that man.

The narrow hallway walls close in on me, and I can’t breathe.

Sometimes, I can push it all from my mind, forget about it for a while. And other times it hits me, knocking me off my feet and sucking the air from my lungs. No matter how hard I try to ignore it, it’s always there, hanging out in the background of my mind.

Within minutes, I’m on the street, making my way past tourists and passersby, some of whom recognize me and call out my name, but I keep moving.

I have to keep moving.

When you stop and rest and think about everything, when you feel the weight of it all, that’s when you drown. That’s when you sink so deep to the bottom that it’s impossible to claw your way to the top ever again.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I don’t think twice before texting Ayla.

Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Her: WORKING. DUH.

Me: I STILL DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DO. WRITER, RIGHT? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WRITE?

Her: MAYBE YOU SHOULD ASK SOMETIME.

Me: I DON’T DO PILLOWTALK.

Her: IT’S CALLED CONVERSATION, AND I KNOW YOU DON’T DO PILLOWTALK. I’VE BEEN FUCKING YOU FOR A WEEK NOW AND YOU DON’T EVEN SCREAM MY NAME. KIND OF DISAPPOINTED IF I’M BEING HONEST.

Me: I CAN SCREAM YOUR NAME IF YOU WANT. I DO TAKE REQUESTS. THOUGH SHOULDN’T YOU BE THE ONE SCREAMING MY NAME?

Her: PROBABLY.

Me: YOU DON’T REALLY STRIKE ME AS A SCREAMER ANYWAY.

Her: YOU’RE PERCEPTIVE. I LIKE THAT IN A FUCK BUDDY.

Me: COME OVER.

Her: CAN’T. LOOMING DEADLINE.

Me: I’LL BUY YOU A LIFETIME SUPPLY OF COFFEE IF YOU GIVE ME AN HOUR OF YOUR TIME RIGHT NOW.

Her: MUST BE DEAN AND DELUCA OR THE DEAL IS OFF.

Me: DEAL. SEE YOU IN ONE HOUR.

Her: YOU’RE LUCKY I’M A SUCKER FOR COFFEE. AND ORGASMS.

Shaking my head, I chuckle. I normally prefer to have the last word, but I’ll make an exception for her just this once.

I slip my phone into my pocket and round the corner to my place, stopping at Dean and DeLuca to grab a gift card because I don’t know what she drinks or how she drinks it, and then I head home and wait.

Taking a seat in my favorite armchair, I flip on the TV and check the clock. She should be here any minute.

I scroll aimlessly through my phone, flipping through old texts and photos and emails, scanning them but not really. My mind is elsewhere, halfway between nowhere and the edge of oblivion.

But before I realize what I’m doing, I find myself face to face with a chain of old emails from Damiana.

My heart stops in my chest.

The day she died—the day I found out the truth, I took everything she owned, shoved it in a cardboard box, and threw it down the trash chute. I destroyed the photos. I deleted her photos from my phone. Before I’d so much as felt the crushing tightness of loss in my chest, I’d erased all evidence of what we had from my life.

Except these emails, evidently.

The last one is dated almost four weeks ago—the night before her death.

FROM: Damiana Westwood

SUBJECT: Re: re: re: Date night?

The Gucci people want me to stay in Florence another week. I’m going to have to cancel our date this weekend. I’m so sorry, baby. I’d much rather be with you, but they had another model cancel and they really, really want me, and I don’t want to let them down because a contract with them would be a game changer for my career. Anyway, I’ll be home Monday, and you can have me all to yourself, I promise.

I love you.

Yours, and only yours—

Damiana

PS—We need to finalize our wedding cake design when I get back. Can you believe it? Six months until I’m Mrs. Rhett Carson!! Can’t wait!

I’ve since found out she never set foot in Florence, and her former agent accidentally let it slip that she had never been considered for a Gucci contract nor had she ever worked with them.

She was holed up with Bryce that week, at some hole-in-the-wall resort in the Finger Lakes.

A knock at my door pulls me out of this deep, dark place, and reminds me that the only thing that matters right now—mind-blowing, guilt-free, no-strings sex—is waiting for me on the other side.

“About damn time,” I say when I open the door.

“Make this quick.” She wraps her arms around my neck, rising on her toes after kicking the door shut and pressing her mouth against mine.