I stare down at the long pieces of wood, propped up against the wall of my workshop. It’s a beautiful stack, all pieces of weathered maple from an old farm a few towns over. The place was being torn down, but I’d arranged to get in a few months ago and salvage some of the wood. I’ve had it in mind to make something special for Libby’s birth, but things have been a blur ever since Trent had announced he’d be taking a paternity leave. The wood has been sitting out here in my shop since then, taunting me every time I walked out here.

Now I have plenty of time and no inspiration of what to do with it. Libby already has a crib and a changing table, and they have all her tiny little clothes folded into one of our Loft & Barn dressers. What else does a baby need? I thought about making her a playhouse but it would be awhile before she’d be able to use something like that.

I grab one of the planks and throw it on the workbench. I eye it from every end, trying to get it to send me a message of some kind. I know it sounds hokey, but when you work with wood enough, you can sometimes get a feel of what it wants to be. Half of my best designs have come from just listening to the materials in front of me, feeling the shapes that were already writ inside of them.

This one though — I’m getting nothing. I flip it over, examine it from end to end, but it stays stubbornly silent.

I suppose it’s my fault for being distracted — ever since last night, I haven’t been able to think of anything but Bree. Of the way her face broke when I told her we had to stop seeing each other. Of the way it had felt to kiss her, knowing it would be the last time.

And of the breath of cold fear in my stomach when Kelsey had walked in on us.

When I’d kissed Bree, I’d allowed myself a moment to think that I was making a mistake. That things weren’t as dire as I was making them out to be, that we could just go on the way we had been, keeping our relationship quiet and spending stolen weekends out here at the farmhouse. Then Kelsey had surprised us, and I realized exactly why ending it with Bree was the right decision. It was just too risky. There was too much at stake.

I shake my head. Kelsey had promised not to say anything — I had to trust that she would keep her word. There was nothing else to do.

I’m just about to flip the plank over a second time when my phone rings. I keep it on the far end of the workshop so that it doesn’t get too dusty while I’m working, so I jog over to grab it before it goes to voicemail. As soon as I pick up the phone, my stomach clenches.

It’s Bree.

I stare down at the phone for a second, debating whether I should even answer or not. But something in my gut says she isn’t the type to call for no reason. And besides, I kind of want to hear her voice. Just this once.

“Hi,” I say. There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

“Hi,” she says finally. Her voice sounds strained.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Have you been on Instagram?”

“Have I...? No, why?”

She sighs. “I’m surprised your phone hasn’t been pinging out of control the way mine has. Hang on, I’m going to send you this.”

“Send me what?”

“Just a sec.”

There’s a fumbling on the other end of the line and then my phone buzzes in my hand.

“Go look,” she says.

I pull the phone away from my ear for a moment and see the new text notification that must be from Bree. It’s an Instagram link, and when the picture loads, I suck in a breath.

It’s me. And Bree.

The photo is from last night at the Michigan Ave. penthouse. It must have been just before Kelsey walked in on us, because in the picture we’re kissing. My hand is winding through her hair and she’s got both hands pressed against my chest. It’s clearly not just an innocent kiss — there’s passion written all over that picture.

“What the fuck is ‘kapple sox ox’?” I say, reading the name over the photo.

On the other end of the line, Bree signs. “That’s K-Apples-xox. K-Apples? Kelsey? Remember?”

“Kelsey posted this?”

“She sure did.” Bree’s words are light but I can tell that she’s on the verge of tears. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to get this fucking thing taken down, is what we’re going to do.” My blood is already starting to boil. I’m furious with Kelsey but I’m mad at myself too — after all, I’ve known all along exactly what the risk was. And now the thing I’d feared has happened. I can only hope that we can limit the damage.

But Bree is laughing ruefully. “Take it down, Luke? Do you even know how the internet works? It’s been shared over a hundred times already and it’s only been up for an hour. You can’t just take things off the internet — once they’re out there, they’re out there. Remember the Beyonce photos?”

“What Beyonce photos?”

She laughs a little. “Never mind. Just trust me. We can try to get Kelsey to take the photo down but it won’t mean anything. It’s out there now.”

“So what do we do?” I hate not having an answer, but the truth is, she knows this social media stuff better than I do.

“I don’t know — hope no one notices it? Hope no one cares as much as we think they will?” She doesn’t sound particularly hopeful though.

I picture George Shapiro sitting in my office the other day, and his warning that a scandal just like this could end up costing us millions from our IPO.

“Right,” I say, swallowing. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad.” I sound a lot more confident than I feel.

“Do you think?” For a second there’s a glimmer of hope in her voice, and I latch onto that.

“Absolutely,” I assure her. “We’re two adults. We didn’t do anything wrong — who cares if we kissed, right?”

“Right,” she says, through a sniffle.

“Look, let me make a few calls, see if I can get a feel for what’s out there, okay?”

“Okay,” she sniffs again. I can tell she’s glad to turn some of her worries over to me — I just wish there was more I could do to fix this.

It was already killing me that I’d hurt her by ending it — she doesn’t need this on top of everything else. I make a vow to myself that I’m going to fix this, however I can.

I’ve only just hung up the phone when it rings again.

Shit. Trent.

I debate not answering it but I already know what he’s calling about, and I know full well that if I don’t pick up now, I’m just going to get a barrage of frantic texts.

“Hello?” I’m already pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Bree Bailey, Luke? Seriously?”

I sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him. It’s actually the truth. I’ve known all along that it was a bad idea to be with Bree, and yet somehow she’d gotten under my skin anyway. Her and her damn red hair and her sweet smile and those fucking curves and that laugh... God, that laugh.

“You don’t know?” Trent laughs incredulously. “Are you an idiot? Of all the fucking women in the world, Luke, seriously? Could you not keep it in your pants for more than five minutes? You had to whip it out for the first girl who —“

“Hey,” I snap. “I get it, okay? I fucked up.”

Then finally he sighs.

“Well, we have to fix this. It isn’t good for us. You know what George Shapiro said. He said...”

“I know what he said.” His words have been ringing in my ears since I saw the picture — that any scandal could mean the difference of hundreds of millions of dollars from our IPO. That isn’t chump change, not even for Trent and I. Plus we both have too much pride to flame out like this. This business is our baby, and if we’re going to go public, we’re going to fucking nail it.

“Look, I’m going to try to get the picture taken down.”

“Good. Do it now, Luke.”

He hangs up the phone before I can get another word in. I slam the phone down on the work bench and mutter a string of expletives under my breath. I have no idea how to get this fucking thing taken down — and according to Bree, it won’t make any difference even if I do.

I decide to do the only thing I can think of, which is to call Tomas.

He’s deeply apologetic and says he’ll get in touch with Kelsey immediately to have her take the photo down. I think about contacting her myself, but I don’t trust myself not to lose my shit at her. The last thing I need is her telling the world that I threatened her into taking the picture down. Contrary to what Trent seems to think, I’m not an idiot and I do understand a bit about bad publicity.

That night, I can’t get Bree off my mind. That’s nothing new, of course, but now her face makes my gut clench in guilt and worry. This whole thing has been a huge, unforgivable lapse in judgement, but my biggest regret is dragging her down with me. I’m the one who pushed her — kissing her on the elevator, dragging her into the bathroom at the gala. Maybe Trent is right — my inability to keep my dick in my pants is ruining everything.

I groan into the darkness, smothering my face into the pillow. I can still smell Bree’s scent in the sheets from the last time she was over, and the lingering sweet vanilla-y perfume is not helping matters. I’m trying to get her out of my head, not breathe her in.

It takes me forever to fall asleep, and in the morning I’m groggy and grumpier about this whole situation than ever.

Lottie looks at me curiously when I come in to the office.

“What?” I say curtly.

She rolls her eyes. “You look terrible.”

Her bluntness actually makes me smile a little. “I feel worse.”

“Then I apologize in advance for what I’m about to tell you.”

“Great. What?”

“George Shapiro called. He’ll be here at eleven.”

I roll my eyes. This is exactly what I need right now — our underwriter reminding me that I’m an irresponsible asshole.

“Thanks,” I tell Lottie, even though I’m sure she can tell I don’t mean it. I disappear into my office and spend most of the morning knee-deep in internal reports. Anything to keep my mind off Bree and, of course, my impending visitor.

By the time eleven o’clock rolls around, I’ve actually almost forgotten about George Shapiro. Then my phone rings, drawing me out of my work trance.

It’s Lottie, and I pick it up, already on edge before I even say a word.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

“Shall I send him in?”

I grumble something unintelligible and hang up, but moments later there’s a curt knock on my door.

I don’t answer but George Shapiro pushes the door open anyway. He’s holding a huge stack of papers and file folders which he immediately drops on my desk.

“Is this the finished prospectus?” I ask. I start to flip through the first folder at the top of the pile, but instead of the dry report I’m expecting, it’s a printed screenshot of ... me and Bree. Fuck.

“No, this is not the prospectus. We’ve temporarily halted that work while we do an issues analysis on your relationship with Bree Bailey.”

“I don’t have a relationship with Bree Bailey,” I say through gritted teeth. Not anymore, anyway.

“Well, this picture would say otherwise, Mr. Whittaker.”

“Pictures lie, George.” I lean back in my chair. “Look, I know it was stupid. I get it. It won’t happen again. You can assure our investors of that.”

He grins ruefully. “I wish it was that easy. If you look in that green folder towards the bottom, we’ve put together a detailed impact scenario and risk analysis of these recent social media reports. I’d like you to look at that report.”

My head is hammering angrily as I reach for the green folder. I flip it open and scan the top document, but to my relief, it doesn’t look that bad. It lays out some projections for our IPO, and the opening price is pretty much right in line with with what we’ve been expecting.

“What’s the problem?” I say, holding up the paper. “This is right on track.”

George Shapiro sighs exaggeratedly. “Yes, Mr. Whittaker, because that’s the original report. The second file in there includes the updated projections.

“Of course.” Smooth, Luke. I put the first report aside and flip through the second one. I do a double-take as my eyes hit the projected figures.

“This is barely even ten per cent of what we’ve been estimating.”

George sits back, looking smug. “So you see my concern then.”

“But this is crazy — you’re telling me we’re actually going to lose hundreds of millions of dollars just because I kissed the CEO of Bailey Living? This is fucking absurd.”

“No, Mr. Whittaker, it’s not fucking absurd. Business is business and our investors do not like uncertainty. A relationship with the head of a competing firm opens you up to all sorts of issues, including creative theft, conflict of interest, and a little thing I like to call prick perspective.”

I raise my eyebrows, but Shapiro doesn’t smile.

“It’s when you think with your dick instead of your head, Mr. Whittaker. Something I’m sure you’re very familiar with.”

Anger bubbles up inside of me. He’s the second person — including Trent — to accuse me of thinking with my dick. And maybe originally that’s what I was doing. Back before I got to know Bree, before I fell in —

“I’ll ask you to leave now,” I say through gritted teeth.

Shapiro has the audacity to look surprised. “Mr. Whittaker…”

“You’ll leave now, before I forcibly remove you. And take your fucking reports with you.” I shove the file folders towards him.

“I’ll leave those for you,” he says, standing. “Perhaps once you’ve cooled down you’ll be able to think about this clearly —“

“Get out!” I roar. I stand up from my desk. Shapiro might have a hundred pounds on me but right now I feel like I could tear this walrus limb from limb. I press my hands down onto the top of the desk, glaring at him.

Shapiro pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then nods curtly and leaves.

For a minute I stand there, just breathing and trying to wait for the anger to leave my body. Only it doesn’t. The longer I stand there, the angrier I get …

At Trent, for putting me in this position.

At Bree, for being so fucking amazing.

At Shapiro, for making it wrong to be with her.

But mostly I’m mad at myself. Because I’ve known all along how bad this could get, and I still did it anyway.

I did it anyway. And now everything is a fucking mess.