“Sexy, dazzling, utterly enthralling.”

A new steamy serial by New York Times & USA Today bestselling author, Whitney G.

Check out the full synopsis and first seven chapters below!

 

“Don’t get married at eighteen, Autumn. You’ll regret it.”

—My mother, six years ago 

 

The End of an ‘Error’

Episode 1

 

Autumn

I don’t love my husband anymore—especially not on these days.

Our flame burned out a long time ago, leaving two severely scorched hearts in its wake. No matter how many times I try to convince myself that a stray ember will soon catch fire, that the old sparks will return someday, the coldness remains.

I married him when I was eighteen years old—when I was young, dumb, and thought I knew everything. I was captivated by defiance, too obsessed with the whole, “But mom, I love him,” and “He’s the only person who understands my deep, dark past,” that I couldn’t see the web I was weaving. (By the way, having strict parents who enforce a midnight curfew hardly equates to having a “deep, dark past.”)

I don’t even think I’m attracted to my husband anymore.

He’s currently on top of me—thrusting in and out of my “sweet kitten”—and the only thing I can think about is whether I turned off our coffeemaker.

I think I hit the switch. Did I hit the switch? 

“You like that, baby?” he asks, bringing his lips close to mine. “You like the way this feels?”

“Oh, yeah, Nate.” I moan. “Oh, yeah.”

Wait. Didn’t I say “Oh, yeah” ten seconds ago? Damnit. “Oh, baby.” Say, “Oh, baby,” next. 

“Autumnnn.”

“Oh, baby…” I splay my hands across his back, now convinced that I didn’t turn off that coffeemaker.

He speeds up his thrusts, gripping my breasts like he’s attempting to yank them off my body. His kisses are erratic and wet, and I have no idea why he’s using his tongue to lick my chin.

Groaning and snarling, he’s now making some type of feral noise. It sounds like a cross between a wounded bear and a dying tiger.

“Fuck, Autumn,” he pants. “Can you feel me, baby? I’m about to come inside of you.”

“Yessss.” I freeze my eyeballs to their sockets. “I’m almost there. Ahhhh.” And with that, I moan a little louder, suck in big breaths, and shake my legs. Faking yet another orgasm.

I should start keeping count.

He collapses on top of me, his sweaty chest pressed against my breasts, and we lay in silence.

Strained phrases during morning sex are the only conversations we have these days.

Several minutes pass before he whispers, “I love you, Autumn.”

I say it back because I always say it back, because the status of our coffeemaker is bothering the hell out of me, and I need an excuse to get up.

“That was amazing.” I tap his shoulders. “I’ll make some breakfast. You want waffles?”

“Sure.” He lifts his head to kiss me one more time. Then he rolls over, allowing me to roll off the bed.

I wrap myself in a robe and head into the kitchen. As soon as I hit the lights, I look over at the counter.

I didn’t turn it off. I knew it!

I grab a box of waffle mix and a package of bacon. Usually, Nate offers to make breakfast after sex, but I need a moment alone to think today.

I need a fucking break.

Picking up my cell phone, I scroll through my endless list of contacts, wishing I had someone close I could call. Someone who could convince me that these feelings are all in my head or confirm that I’m not alone.

Alas, ever since Nate moved me to this picture-perfect suburbia—with its street names like Whispering Willow, Sweet Sycamore, and My Magnolia—planting new seeds of friendship has been impossible.

I’ve struggled to get close to any of the women here, settling for vapid coffee dates or mindless yoga sessions. Sometimes I feel like they’re all tuned into a never-ending episode of Married Life is Wonderful, and I’m never allowed to complain about where the writers are taking the show.

I toggle between calling my next-door neighbor Julie or Katy—the president of our neighborhood HOA. Since Katy recently complained about our mums being “a little out of season,” I go with the former.

It rings once.

It rings twice.

“Hey there, Autumn!” Julie answers, her voice hoarse. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

“Very. Do you have any free time today? I need to talk to you about something.”

“If this is about Linda Watts’ disaster of a PTA meeting, I will bring over two bottles of wine. I can’t believe she tried to make people buy her shampoo products at the end!”

“No, it’s about—”

“Hey! Put that back on the shelf, Mister. Now.” She sucks in a deep breath. “Right now, Daniel. Stop embarrassing me in this store.”

“Should I call back at a different time?”

“God no,” she says. “You’re the first adult I’ve spoken to today. Hold on one second while I put Daniel back into this cart.”

I lean against the counter as Nate walks into the kitchen. He’s dressed in one of his custom black suits, looking as if his morning orgasm never happened.

“I just got a call from a client,” he says. “Raincheck on breakfast?”

I nod, knowing I’ll never redeem it.

We say lines like, “You want waffles?” or “Want to watch a movie later?” in the same way that friendly strangers ask, “How are you today?” and “Great weather, isn’t it?” We aren’t interested in the actual answers, and we don’t expect the encounter to lead to any place new.

He blows me a kiss and I pretend to catch it. Then I watch as he walks out of our front door, as he slips behind the wheel of his quantum grey Audi.

Julie returns to the line as he drives onto the street.

“Okay, sorry about Daniel,” she says. “What’s this about?”

“Nate.”

“Aw! You want me to help pick out something for your upcoming anniversary?”

“No.” I swallow. “I want you to tell me why I shouldn’t ask him for a divorce…”

 

End of Episode 1

 

What a Friend

Episode 2

 

Autumn

A few hours later 

There’s a gorgeous man in Juniper Cafe who can’t take his eyes off me. From the moment I walked through the doors, his blue and grey irises have followed my every move.

They’re currently beckoning me to leave, to walk away from this conversation with Julie.

Do it, Autumn. Leave. 

As tempting as it is, as easy as it seems, he and I can never be.

This ‘man’ is nothing more than a framed Chris Hemsworth poster, and I have the feeling that after minutes of listening to Julie’s rambling, he wants to jump off the wall and kill himself.

“I don’t understand why Daniel is regressing in his potty training.” Julie stuffs a fry into her mouth. “One day, he goes to his seat and drops those turds just fine. The next day, he’s shitting brown lava all over my favorite couch and the dogs are following his lead.”

I set down my fork.

My appetite vanished a while ago, but she’s assuring me that it’ll never return.

“My living room smells worse than a zoo these days, so I’m happy that my nanny is coming back from vacation next week. Potty-training my son is her job.”

Nodding along, I lean back in my chair and wait for her to ask me about Nate. I wait for her to say something, anything, that isn’t about her life.

Half an hour passes, and she never does.

By the time her phone sounds with a reminder that it’s time to head home, I’ve learned which neighbors are in danger of having their houses foreclosed on, which decorations she’s setting out for Halloween, and which brand of toddler toilets hold the most poop.

This can’t be my life…

We share an umbrella on our way to the parking lot, and she waits for me to slip behind the wheel.

“Divorcing Nate isn’t a fucking option.” The cold tone of her voice makes me look up.

“What?”

“You said vows before God and your family, until death do you part,” she says. “You loved him enough to want a ‘forever together’ at one point, so suck up whatever the hell you’re going through and work that shit out.”

“Julie, it’s a bit more complicated than that. If you’d asked me in the cafe—”

“No, it isn’t.” She cuts me off, narrowing her eyes. “Only a weak and pathetic woman would ever consider leaving her marriage, and that’s a fact.”

I stare at her for several seconds, completely taken aback by her change in demeanor.

“All you have to do is remember how good things were before.” She attempts to soften her voice, to retract some of the venom, but the damage is done.

“There will always be rough patches,” she says. “The real couples know how to hold tight and iron them out.”

I fake a smile. “Thank you for the advice, Julie.”

“Anytime!” she says, now laughing and acting as if the last minute never happened. “And when all else fails, watch some hardcore porn together. Sometimes a few rounds of good sex is all it takes.”

“Good to know.” I say goodbye and wait for her to turn away before slamming my door.

The moment I start the engine, the windshield wipers brush away what was left of our ‘friendship.’

Contrary to what she thinks, I’ve played the ‘remember how good things were before’ game millions of times, and all it ever does is reveal how many red flags I missed. How many times I had the opportunity to step off the field and accept our try at love as a loss.

I met him during the summer before my senior year in high school, after he’d already graduated from college.

A small part of me thought he was too old and experienced—way too full of himself as well—but the larger part of me didn’t care.

I let him sneak into my room and steal my virginity, let him show me what it felt like to be utterly reckless, while we smoked marijuana and drank warm beer on the beach.

Our relationship was a special brand of toxicity, and every sip of danger and instability left me wanting more.

And the sex was definitely better. Not “great,” but better.

As I steer my car onto the highway, my dashboard lights up with a new call.

Nate.

I turn up the volume before answering. “Hey.”

“Hey. I just realized that I forgot to tell you happy birthday this morning.”

Silence.

“Happy birthday, Autumn.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like me to treat you to dinner this evening to celebrate?”

“Sure.” I ignore the familiar ache in my chest. “What time and place work best for you?”

“You tell me. It’s your birthday.”

The billboard ahead brags about a brand-new eatery downtown.

“O’Malley’s at seven?”

“Seven at O’Malley’s sounds good.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” I end the call and switch lanes.

I prepare to return home, but a sleek, black McLaren speeds past me on the right.

My car shakes in its wake, and I know the driver has to be going at least thirty miles over the speed limit.

What the hell?

I can’t help but remember when Nate and I chased down anyone who dared to speed past us on the highway.

We’d get close enough to match their speed, and then we’d see how long they let us follow. Where they let us go.

I’m not sure what comes over me, but I switch lanes and press the gas pedal to the floor.

I catch up to the McLaren when my dashboard warns I’m driving eighty-five miles an hour, and I’m close enough to read the license plate.

MISTER R

He speeds up. I speed up.

He switches lanes. I do the same.

I match the car for miles, for no reason, knowing that this one-sided game could end in disaster. That he may not even want to play.

He drives far past the city that holds my suburb and into another county. For a long stretch of the road, there’s only the two of us.

As we approach Exit 180A, he flashes his right turn signal.

This is supposed to be the stopping point, when I slow down and turn around. Game over.

I don’t follow the rules this time, though.

I continue to trail him.

When we get off the ramp, a different type of suburbia appears, and I can’t help but question why I’ve never ventured this far before.

I’m admiring this winding, tree-lined drive so much that I fail to realize that I’m not following the McLaren into a subdivision.

This is clearly a private road.

Shit. 

His car comes to a stop, and I notice the black iron gate ahead of us. The letter “R” is embedded within its bars.

The driver’s side door suddenly opens and a black umbrella lets up into the rain. Then a man dressed in a dark grey suit steps onto the pavement.

He strolls toward me, rendering me speechless with every step he takes, with every glance I’m stealing of his gorgeous, chiseled face.

Oh. My. God…

I can’t determine his exact eye color from here, but I know that the hard clench of his jaw means he’s not too pleased about being followed.

Not wanting to give him a chance to make it to my window, I put my car in reverse and slam on the gas.

My heart races as I struggle to maneuver the backward turns, my palms sweat against the steering wheel.

The man remains standing under his umbrella—watching me until I’m gone—then I return to the highway and head back to where I belong.

What the hell was I thinking?

End of Episode 2

 

No Point in Trying

Episode 3

 

Autumn

O’Malley’s is booked with reservations for the next two months, no exceptions.

Our seven o’clock plans for my birthday dinner are derailed, now exchanged for a last-minute ticket to Outback Steakhouse. Even so, we may never get the chance to claim our rides.

Today’s “light and steady rainfall” is a full-blown thunderstorm that’s shedding sheets of rain every few seconds, and we’re currently killing time in the restaurant’s parking lot. Desperately waiting for it to slow.

My designer red dress—with its deep, plunging neckline and sparkling nude stilettos—feels like too much of an effort; same with Nate’s custom black suit and Italian leather shoes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead and check on O’Malley’s.” Nate turns down the heat.

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” I clear my throat. “How was your day today?”

“Good. Yours?”

“Same.”

Silence stretches between us, painful yet comforting at the same time.

“You know what?” He taps his chin. “I can drive next to the entrance to get you close enough to the awning to stay dry, or we can order your birthday dinner to-go.”

“That would be nice.”

Without asking whether I’m referring to the former or the latter, he puts the car in drive and speeds toward the entrance.

“What do you want me to order?” He turns on the hazard lights, picking ‘the latter’ for me.

“I’ll have whatever you have.”

He nods and steps into the downpour.

After watching him rush inside, I shut my eyes and pretend that tonight’s ending has a different trajectory. That maybe, in some alternate universe, the man I chased all the way to his home caught up to my window before I backed away.

In that prettier reality, he yanked my door open and demanded answers. Then he pulled me out to kiss me without permission, using his perfectly defined mouth to taste all the words I struggled to say.

His face appears in my mind again, clear as day, as he’s the type of beautiful that a person never forgets.

I wonder if he saw my face…

“Do you think he saw your face?” Nate’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I realize he’s back, placing our to-go bags at my feet.

“What?” I look at him. “Who?”

“Mr. Lauren, our old neighbor with the cats.” He nods to an elderly man who is smoking by the door. “Do you think he remembers you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I barely remember him.”

Nate turns off the hazard lights, but he doesn’t pull out of the lot. Instead, he leans over and tucks a few strands of hair behind my ear.

“I would like us to talk about something important, Autumn,” he says. “I think we both know how difficult a conversation it will be, but I guess it’s inevitable.”

So, he wants a divorce, too? Good. 

“Well, maybe we can talk about handling the legal stuff sometime this week?”

“There shouldn’t be any legal stuff.” He shrugs. “This is pretty clear-cut to me.”

Confused, I raise my eyebrow. “What exactly do you want us to talk about?”

“Having a baby.”

My jaw doesn’t have time to drop to the floor.

“I think it could fulfill you,” he says. “It’ll also keep you busy at home. You seem to need something to do with your free time…”

The whiplash between possibly escaping this dead marriage and carrying his child is too much for me to process at once. There’s no way he can’t tell that our relationship is hanging by a thread, that it would take years of change to spin our lives into a new story that doesn’t need to be written.

Unless this is all in my head, after all… No, it can’t be. 

“I still have love for you, Autumn.” He cups my face in his hands, and what was left of my world falls off its axis. “We should finish this talk tomorrow.”

He presses a kiss against my forehead and finally drives—taking the long way home.

As if we’re young-and-dumb-in-love again, he stops at an ice-cream shop to buy a pint of my favorite flavor: Pralines ’N Cream. He even requests two bright pink spoons.

“I guess I should get used to making night runs for sweets, huh?” he asks, smiling.

Somehow, I tuck my shock and confusion under my tongue and force a laugh.

When we make it home, he eats his dinner in front of the living room television.

I stuff mine into the back of the refrigerator.

Stripping down to my panties, I crawl under our cold sheets, hoping that when I wake up, this night will all be a dream.

As I roll over to turn off the lamp, my phone sounds against the nightstand with a ringtone I only hear once every blue moon.

My mother.

She and I haven’t spoken since the day of my wedding, when she called me crying and told me that she and my father weren’t coming.

They never even boarded the plane.

Although the memory of that day still hurts, it hurts even worse to admit that she was right…

I grab my phone and unlock the screen, finding myself face to face with the same message she sends on my birthday, year after year.

Mom: Happy birthday, Autumn. I love you to the moon and back & I always will. Hope Nate is treating you well, and I’m so damn sorry. I was wrong. I also hope that one day you’ll call me back and forgive me…

I save her message and fall asleep with tears in my eyes.

***

The following morning, I awake to the sound of lapping waters. Not the relaxing kind, though.

These waters are choppy and inconsistent, and for some reason, they sound as if they’re coming from our bedroom.

Opening my eyes, I see Nate’s head bobbing between my legs.

What the…

“Your sweet kitten tastes so good, babe.” He’s licking me like a dehydrated dog. “It also tastes… fertile.”

I don’t give him a series of fake moans this time; I can’t.

Instead, I shut my eyes and try to convince myself that this man is the same man who once bragged about how sex with him would change my life.

“Damn… You’re still so tight.” He continues, slipping his fingers in and out of me, poking and prodding my pussy for approval. “Guess I should stretch you out as much as I can… Nine months from now, we may not have the chance to do this.”

Oh, fuck that…

Against my better judgment, and to avoid any further conversations about a baby, I give in and gift him the fake moans.

An overabundant supply.

When I’m finally “Oh my goddd, there,” I tell him I’m exhausted so he can run off to work and I can think alone in peace.

* * *

In the evening, I drive to Target for an escape.

I push the red cart through the aisles, filling it with things that will undoubtedly earn a place in my trash can months from now.

As I’m deciding which boxed wine I want, my phone sounds with a new call.

Julie.

Ugh. I meant to block you yesterday. “Hello?” I answer.

“Oh, my god! I’m surprised you answered!”

That makes two of us. “What’s going on?”

“I know you’re in the middle of something good, so I just wanted to say that I love when people take my advice. I’m so happy you’re listening to me.”

She’s delusional, but I can’t help biting her bait. “What the hell are you talking about, Julie?”

“Okay, fine. Don’t give me any credit.” She laughs. “My hairdresser saw Nate getting you Outback to-go last night, and this woman I do Pilates with says she just saw you two walk inside Odette’s for their dark masquerade ball. She said Nate looks amazing and your mask is gorgeous.”

What? The hairs on the back of my neck stand at full attention. “Odette’s?”

“I’ve always wanted to get an invitation or know someone high up enough to party there,” she says. “Lucky you, huh?”

I say nothing.

Thousands of thoughts are running through my mind, and I can’t catch any of them. I’m still chasing the ones from yesterday.

“Anyway, I don’t want to hold you up. Call and tell me about it later? Maybe we’ll have another lunch at Juniper Cafe?”

I remain silent, and she ends the call as a cashier’s voice comes over the store’s speakers.

“I need a price check on lane five! A price check on lane five!”

Leaving my overloaded cart in the wine aisle, I rush out of the store and slip behind the wheel of my car.

I turn off the warning alerts for speeding and head toward the highway.

I don’t want to risk thinking logically at all during this drive…

End of Episode 3

One Night, One Glance

Episode 4

 

Autumn

It’s nine o’clock by the time I make it to Odette’s.

The front entrance is teeming with men in bright red tuxedo jackets and security guards who are double-checking guests’ invitations and enforcing the “valet only” and “private party” rules.

From what I remember, thanks to the only night that Nate ever brought me here, this annual masquerade ball is only hosted by an A-list celebrity, a Fortune 500 company, or someone from the wealthy elite. Most of the budget is spent on surveillance and protection, and it’s impossible to get anywhere near the event without special clearance.

Tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, I drive to the east-side entrance, finding another barrier. Yet another private setup for valet, another hive for red tuxedos.

The scene is the same on the west and the south, and suddenly, my grand delusion of barging inside to confront my husband crumbles to pieces.

Is he bold enough to cheat on me publicly? Would he really do that to me?

Those questions replay in my mind as I circle the building, and I realize that I can’t let them survive unanswered. I can’t let him touch or talk to me again until I know for sure.

It’s not until I see a group of men standing outside in white chef coats when I decide to take a chance.

Pulling on a pair of oversized sunglasses after parking, I grab my purse and approach them.

“You’re on the wrong side, lady!” One of the men lights a cigarette. “The entrance is further ahead!”

“I think she’s in the wrong place.” Another guy coughs. “She’s definitely not dressed for this occasion.”

“I’m exactly where I should be.” I keep my voice firm since I have nothing to lose. “If I needed to borrow one of your coats to get inside, how much would that cost me?”

Silence.

They stare at me for a long time, and then they fall into a fit of laughter.

“I’m not joking,” I say, trying again. “How much to borrow one of your coats for a few minutes?”

No response.

They render me invisible and dispatch my presence away by turning their backs—returning to a world where I don’t exist.

Sighing, I head back to my car. I’m willing to sit across the street all night and wait for Nate to emerge red-handed if it comes down to it.

“Five hundred dollars,” a deep voice suddenly says from behind, making me spin around.

“What?”

“Seven hundred if you want my matching beret.” A young guy holds out his coat. “What’s it going to be?”

“Both.”

He holds out his hand for the money. “My break is over in like forty minutes, so you’ll need to bring this shit right back. If you get caught by security, I’m telling them you stole everything, and they’ll definitely press charges.”

Without considering the consequences, I rummage around in my bag and hand him the bills.

After counting them twice, he motions for me to follow him inside.

“The masquerade lounge is on the twenty-ninth floor,” he says, leading me through a busy kitchen, then an even busier prep room. “The masquerade ball is on the thirtieth.”

“What’s the difference between the two?” I ask as he ushers me into a freight elevator.

“Seems like you should already know that.” He hits the top button and the doors shut, sending the car up at a frantic speed.

When the doors glide open on twenty-nine, they reveal a cracked grey wall and nothing more.

Confused, I step out and follow the soft sound of laughter and clinking glasses. Right as I’m approaching a stairwell, a man in a red tuxedo rounds the corner.

Shit.

“May I help you, Miss Junior Chef?” he asks.

“No, I’m fine.”

“You can’t be. You’re in a restricted area for guests when you should be serving or cooking in one of the kitchens.” His voice is flat. “You’re also wearing unauthorized sunglasses. Bring me your staff badge.”

“The guy didn’t let me borrow his badge.”

“What?” He narrows his eyes. “What did you say?”

I don’t answer or attempt to explain. I rush back to the elevator as fast as I can and punch the ‘close door’ button like my life depends on it.

Thankfully, there’s no hesitation in the doors shutting, but I can hear the guy’s heavy footsteps echoing in the hall before the car rises to the top level.

When the doors open this time, I’m instantly welcomed into a world that still looks as spellbinding as it did when I first experienced it years ago.

The dimly lit room is draped in velvet-curtained walls, accented with shiny silver chandeliers that hang high above its marble floors.

A full symphony orchestra, dressed in all-white, plays at center stage, serenading the room of masked guests with a beautiful overture I vividly remember playing in high school.

It takes ten seconds for me to place the notes and remember precisely where they fall on the sheet.

Libertango by Astor Piazzolla.

My fingers are suddenly itching to handle a bow—to return to when times were simpler—as I slowly move around in search of Nate.

He’s not holding up the wall or chatting with the other businessmen, and for a moment, I feel foolish for ever letting Julie send me on this wild goose chase.

I’m definitely blocking her number tonight.

My eyes roam the room again, and just as I’m about to abandon my search, I spot him.

I spot him being the exact opposite of the ‘husband’ he is to me.

He’s the masked man at the center of the dance floor, the very man who is stealing everyone’s attention while he holds another woman in his arms.

I can’t believe this shit.

I dissolve into the walls for several seconds, watching as he seductively sways her to the strings, taking in every frame of this scene.

He’s dressed in an immaculate black suit and matching leather shoes—the same outfit he wore for my “birthday dinner”—and his date is dazzling the audience in a champagne-colored gown that clings to her hips.

Possessively gripping her waist, he keeps his eyes locked on hers between every twirl. She smiles whenever he pulls her body against his chest, whenever he teases her lips with a gentle kiss.

From the cherry-red stain that’s sitting on the edge of his collar to the way her perfectly manicured fingers are digging into his neck, it’s clear that they’re fucking. They’ve been fucking.

It’s also clear from the length of this woman’s dark brown curls and her petite, curvy frame that anyone who knows “us” would probably assume that she is me.

So, he’s beyond bold.

During the interlude, Nate slips his tongue between her lips and claims her mouth for what feels like hours, and I’m unable to watch anymore.

I can’t stomach another second.

Unsure how to feel, I follow the signs for the restroom and splash my face with water.

Don’t you dare make a scene right now, Autumn. Be strategic and think this through.  

As I’m grabbing a dry cloth, the golden-dressed mistress steps into the room. She takes her place at the sink next to me, so close that I can touch the pearls of her necklace.

Pulling down her feathered mask, her green eyes meet mine in the mirror.

“Hi.” She smiles. “I mean, good evening.”

“Good evening.” I don’t return the joy.

There’s no glint of recognition in her irises, no glimmer of shame or remorse.

She has no idea who the hell I am…

I search for something else to say, but my breath is cut short as she lays her mini wallet against the porcelain. Her driver’s license is face up in the plastic, the words “Under 21 until” scream at me in red.

“Are you enjoying the party?” I barely manage.

“Yeah. All the food that your team has brought out to serve has been wonderful, especially the chocolate-covered truffles.” Her cheeks flush pink, and she shakes her head. “Wait, sorry. My boyfriend told me to never take off my mask or talk to anyone while I’m here. You won’t tell him about this, will you?”

“No,” I say. “I won’t tell your boyfriend anything.”

“Thank you, Miss.”

“You’re welcome.” I watch as she applies another layer of mascara to her eyelashes, as she treats her puffy lips to a fresh coat of unwitting sin.

After she readjusts her mask and heads to the door, I pull out my phone to call Nate.

Even though I’m standing knee-deep in the evidence, I want a final confirmation before rendering the verdict.

It rings once.

It rings twice.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” He pauses. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to know if you were working late tonight.”

“I am,” he says. “I’m currently out with a client. Would you like me to get you something on my way home?”

“A fresh pint of Pralines ’N Cream would be nice.”

“Done. I’ll see you at home.”

“See you at home.”

Before I can figure out my next move, a loud knock comes at the door.

“This is security!” a deep voice bellows. “My apologies for interrupting, but I need to step inside to check on something.”

Dammit.

I look around for an exit door and spot a closet. Slipping inside of it, I wiggle behind a tall stack of boxes. Then I notice another handle inside.

Twisting and pushing it as hard as I can, it gives way, and I find myself facing a wall of mirrors. Another row of sinks.

What the…

Confused, I turn around. And before I can pick up my fallen sunglasses or make sense of where I am in this building, I realize that I’m standing directly in front of the man I followed home the other night.

Mister R.

I suck in a slow breath as his eyes meet mine, and the entire balance of the room shifts in his favor.

Unlike everyone else here, he’s not wearing anything over his face, and as strikingly beautiful as he is in his dark grey suit and tie, all I can focus on are his eyes.

They’re a deep shade of ocean blue with soft flecks of winter grey and they’re pinning me to the spot, rendering me utterly useless.

He says nothing for several moments, eyeing me intently as he moves closer, so close that his chest nearly brushes against mine.

My heart races against my chest as he looks me up and down, as his lips slowly part.

“Do I need to file a restraining order?” he asks, his voice deep.

“What?” His question catches me entirely off guard.

“It’s quite clear that you’re stalking me,” he says. “And I’d like to hear why.”

“I’m not—” I notice the dimple in his right cheek deepening. “I’ve never seen you a day before in my life.”

“We both know that’s a damn lie.”

“You must be confusing me with someone else then.” I play a new hand of deceit, unwilling to fold easily. “I don’t know your name, and you definitely don’t know mine. Besides, I come across a lot of strangers in my day-to-day life.”

“Oh?” His lips curve into a smirk. “Well, I don’t. And seeing as though this is my second time coming face to face with you in a place where you don’t belong, I can assure you that this is the very definition of stalking.”

“No, it’s not that.” I don’t bother selling my ignorance anymore. The look in his eyes confirms he’ll never buy it. “I honestly didn’t think that you saw my face the other night.”

“I did.” His gaze travels to my lips. “It’s been quite hard to forget.”

Silence.

He takes a small step forward, and I take a small step back.

He places his hands against the wall above my head—trapping me in place—demanding that I give him more answers.

A banging noise sounds at the door, immediately saving me, and he looks away.

“I know you’re in here, Miss!” The security guard barges into the room. “You’re not allowed to be up here, and I want your badge.”

He stops dead in his tracks when he catches sight of Mister R.

“I am—I am so sorry, sir.” His face pales, and he swallows. “I didn’t know you were in here. I was just, I thought—”

He rushes out of the room without finishing his sentence, and Mister R returns his attention to me.

“Now, where were we?” His question is rhetorical. “Oh, yes. I believe you were about to explain why you chased me down the highway the other night or why you’re at this party uninvited. You can pick which one to address first.”

“I don’t have a reason for the former.”

“Then give me one for the latter.”

Don’t answer that… “Tonight is just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence.” He tests the word on his tongue, enunciating every syllable, saying nothing further.

We stare at each other for several minutes, letting the distant strings from the orchestra serve as the only sound between us.

I can tell that he knows the notes and flow of this concerto as well as I do; the way his fingers tap the bricks at the fermata, the way they strum for every crescendo, reveal that he’s spent his fair share of time in the world of music, too.

In the middle of the encore, I shut my eyes and picture him pulling me onto the dance floor, twirling me around for every guest—especially Nate—to see.

My eyes flutter open when the director abruptly exchanges the song for the waltz, and I realize that Mister R’s gaze on me hasn’t wavered in the slightest.

“I, uh…” I clear my throat. “I think I need to go now.”

“I think so, too.” He gives me one last lethal glance before picking up my sunglasses and walking over to the door. He holds it open, silently commanding me to leave.

I follow his order and make my way down the hall and to the elevator bank that’s for the invited guests.

Stepping into the car, I punch the button for the bottom level, but nothing happens.

The doors don’t close. The buttons don’t light.

I hit the bottom level button again.

Nothing.

Desperate to escape his deep blue gaze, to prevent myself from falling into another forbidden fantasy, I hit all the buttons, but the results are the same.

Mister R watches me in amusement, a faint smile on his lips.

“Is this one broken?” I ask. “Should I move to another?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps forward and gently grabs the collar of my borrowed chef’s coat. Slowly pushing the jacket off my shoulders, he watches my reaction until it’s completely in his possession.

The chef’s beret catches his eye next, and he takes his time pulling it off me, too.

Then he pulls a keycard from his pocket and swipes it against the outer panel.

All the interior buttons flash bright green.

“This better be our last ‘coincidence,’” he says, smirking as the doors close. “Or else I’ll have to handle the next one myself.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s more like a guarantee.” He pauses. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Autumn…”

End of Episode 4

Wicked Games

Episode 5

Autumn

After the party

 

Waves of blue and white lights are flashing in my rearview mirror, casting an aura against the darkness. They’re a stark contrast to the series of stoplights I’ve sped through while wishing my time with Mister R never came to an end.

“This better be our last coincidence…”

I’ve mentally rewound and replayed every second of the night, stopping and pausing at the moments when he looked deeply into my eyes to speak, when he uttered my name.

How did he even know it?

I’ve never felt this drawn to a man at first or second sight before, never felt utterly compelled to follow him wherever he wanted to lead, but I’ve read enough love stories to know that this is a dangerous plot. The twists and turns are potentially infinite, and the hero is already too much of an enigma.

With Nate, the initial allure of ‘us’ was in our rebellion. With Mister R, the allure isn’t worthy of a metaphor. It’s an indisputable fact.

“Miss?” A police officer—a familiar police officer—suddenly taps on my window. “Miss?”

I roll it down. “Yes?”

“Here’s your ticket, again.” He hands me a folded sheet before returning my license. “The speed limit on this lane is forty miles an hour, and those huge red stop signs are not suggestions. Are we clear?”

“Yes.” I nod. “Thank you.”

“If I pull you over for a third time within the next hour, I’m taking you straight to jail.”

I blink. “It won’t happen again.”

“It better not, so if you don’t mind—” He gestures for me to move. “Drive safe and get the hell home.”

I force a smile and pull onto the road, driving five miles under the speed limit.

At this pace, my thoughts can’t be reckless, and they can’t explore an alternate life with Mister R. They can only focus on Nate.

Nate and his lies.

Nate and his cheating.

Nate and all the “love” of mine he’s wasted.

With every mile I drive, the uglier my thoughts become, and the more I want to strangle him in his sleep.

When I finally make it to our house, his car isn’t in the garage.

Slipping into the kitchen, I pull a bottle of vodka from the cabinet. I drink straight from its rim, gulp by gulp.

As the liquor burns its way down my throat, I glance at the clock above the oven.

It’s an hour before midnight, and Nate will be home from the ball at any moment.

That’s more than enough time for me to be strategic.

I may not have heeded my mother’s initial marriage warning, but I’ve scoured my brain for every bit of advice she’s ever given me about relationships and followed the rest of them to the letter.

“Always have an escape plan, Autumn. No matter what.”

I carry the vodka with me into the guest bedroom.

Pushing the closet doors open, I pull out two small duffle bags I packed months ago. Inside, there are enough clothes for a week, a couple of prepaid credit cards, and a second cell phone.

I double-check to ensure the emergency cash is stuffed into the bottom compartment and lock them inside my car trunk.

Heading to the dining room, I search for two-week hotel stays in the next county and anxiously watch the clock.

I’m crossing Hiltons off my list when midnight finally strikes. At one o’clock, every Marriott in a fifty-mile radius has smacked me with an “unavailable” greeting.

By two, I’m refreshing my screen for the umpteenth page of Airbnb options. And at three, I have a small list of options, but still no sign of Nate.

There’s no ice cream or convenience store still open at this hour, and although I’d briefly forgotten about the potential for after-parties, he’s never come home this late.

I pull out my phone and send him a text.

Me: Are you still at work? Getting pretty late…

No response.

I can see that he’s ‘read’ my words, that he even started typing a response, but his excuse never comes through.

I send him another message.

Me: Nate, I can tell that you’ve read my text. Are you headed home? We need to talk ASAP.

Nate: I’m busy, Autumn. Whatever it is, we’ll talk later. Sleep well, love you.

What the hell? I immediately call him.

It rings once.

It rings twice.

Then he hits ignore and sends me straight to voicemail.

Seconds later, he sends me another text.

Nate: We’ll talk later. Don’t call me again.

I seethe as I stare at his words. 

I weigh the pros and cons of leaving via a final note on the table or waiting to say goodbye in person, but the sound of our doorbell ringing interrupts me mid-thought.

Confused, I walk over and glance through the peephole.

Ricky? He’s one of Nate’s assistants. 

“Um… Hey.” I open the door. “May I help you with something?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were expecting me.” He holds up a brown bag.

“What’s this?”

“Pralines ’N Cream. Mr. Taylor told me to get you a super carton since he’s working after hours, so…” He avoids looking into my eyes as if he’s well aware that he’s speaking the language of bullshit.

“Thank you very much, Ricky.” I take the bag from his hands, resisting the urge to ask him any further questions. “Drive safe on your way home.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.”

“It’s Miss Jane,” I say. “Don’t ever call me that other name again.”

His eyes widen, and he rushes away.

I wait until his headlights hit the street before opening the bag. Sure enough, there’s a “super carton” of ice cream and a huge pink spoon.

Under that is the golden picture frame from Nate’s desk at work, one of us kissing on the beach a few months into our relationship. The morning after I gave him my virginity.

A post-it note that’s taped on its edge bears his messy handwriting:

Think of me touching you while you sleep tonight.

Love you,

Nate

“Fuck you, Nate.” I toss the frame against the wall, cracking it in half.

Disappointed with the unsatisfying way that it snapped, I step on it until the glass is completely crushed. Then I storm into our living room and stare at the honeymoon pictures that line our mantle.

Picking up the fire poker, I swing and hit the frames one by one—shattering them to pieces as they meet the floor.

I knock our “Mr. & Mrs. Taylor” wedding album from its high seat on the bookshelf, stomping all over its shards before taking my destruction party to the next room. Then the next.

By the time I’ve destroyed all the photographic evidence of our “happy” memories, the sun is peeking its head through the blinds.

And Nate still hasn’t come home.

End of Episode 5

 

Foul Play

Episode 6

Autumn

That afternoon

I’m clearing the kitchen table to draft a new version of a “farewell, fuck you” letter when Nate suddenly walks through the garage entry door.

Carrying a white catering bag from O’Malley’s, he smiles at me as if he’s just won the lottery.

“This will never count as a formal dinner reservation,” he says, “but I hope this will make up for your birthday.”

Am I in the Twilight Zone? I blink a few times, pinching myself to make sure I’m not imagining this.

He really stayed out with the other woman all night, all day.

Humming our wedding song to himself like a psychopath, he sets the bag on the table and ceremoniously takes out our best porcelain plates from the cabinet. The way he moves with such ease and finesse makes me remember how he held that other woman in his arms.

How he kissed her lips and devoured her mouth in front of everyone.

I lean back in the chair and cross my arms, waiting for him to notice the glass disaster zone in our living room, but he keeps his gaze focused on me and the catering.

“I meant to call you earlier,” he says. “Things got busy at work, though. You know how it is.”

“Yes. I know exactly how it is.”

He slides me a plate of freshly-cut steak and vegetables, then he takes a seat directly across from me.

“How was your day today?” he asks, attempting to lure me back into our usual charade. “Better yet, how long have you been writing this afternoon?”

“Depends. How long have you been cheating on me, Nate?”

Silence.

He picks up a scallop and smothers it in butter. Keeping his eyes on mine, he devours it whole.

As he picks up another, I notice that he’s wearing his wedding ring on his middle finger.

“Nate,” I say, raising my voice, “I asked you a question.”

“I heard it loud and clear. Can you pass the salt, please?”

I don’t move, and he tilts his head to the side.

“Autumn, the salt.”

“Nate, the cheating.”

He leans across the table and grabs the shaker. Then he lets out a long sigh. “When’s the last time you worried about paying a bill, Autumn?”

“What does that have to do with your cheating?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” he says. “Answer my question first.”

“I can’t remember.”

“Interesting. When’s the last time you had to worry about balancing a checkbook or wondering if you can afford to buy something with one of my credit cards?”

“Nate—”

“Wrong word,” he says. “The correct one is never, and that’s because I take care of everything. I’ve always taken care of everything for you.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“You live in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the country and you drive a BMW without ever having to worry about filling up the gas tank, getting an oil change, or keeping the interior clean.”

“How long have you been seeing her?” I refuse to let him steer this conversation onto an irrelevant track.

“Nothing in your closet is less than designer-quality.” He steers it further anyway. “Nothing in this home is less than custom-made.”

“So, you take your minor-aged girlfriend on shopping sprees whenever she gets upset with you, too? Do you ever get déjà vu?”

Glaring at me, Nate slowly sets down his fork.

The room is suddenly ten times smaller and a chill runs up my spine.

He stands up and walks over to my side of the table—cupping my face in his hands.

My flesh crawls.

“Autumn, Autumn, Autumn,” he says, his voice flat. “Let’s get a few things clear about me and you… You have a high school diploma and you work part-time at a goddamn crafts store twice a week.”

“I work as a highly sought-after luthier.”

“You repair fucking instruments,” he says. “No matter what fancy term you choose to wrap it with, that’s your only contribution to society.”

“So, is fucking other women yours?”

“My contributions are what got us this house and this lifestyle, they’re what—” He pauses, finally looking at the living room and taking in the carnage of our memories. “Look. I’m not sure where these silly little allegations are suddenly coming from, but you need to drop them. Now.”

“I saw you, Nate.” I glare at him. “I saw you at Odette’s damn near screwing that girl on the dance floor. There’s no need to gaslight me by saying it wasn’t you. Just admit it.”

He doesn’t say a word.

His expression remains stoic.

“How old is she anyway?” I ask. “Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Nineteen.” He runs his fingers through my hair at the admission, not looking guilty or ashamed in the slightest. “She just turned nineteen.”

“Did you ever tell her that you were married?” I’m well aware of the answer, but I need to hear him say it. “Did she ever know that you were still sleeping with me?”

“I’ve always been safe with her,” he says, as if that’s the issue. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Neither do you. I want a divorce.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, excuse me.” I knock away his hand. “It’s been a long time coming, Nate, but I’m filing for a divorce. Tomorrow.”

“With what money, Autumn?” He looks highly amused. “Any half-decent lawyer in this town will laugh you out of the parking lot once you question their retainer fees. You know, thinking that things in life are this easy is probably why you couldn’t make it in college.”

I resist the urge to jump out of my seat and claw out his eyeballs.

“The truth is, with your value and lack of earning potential, I’m the best guy you’ll ever have, the best you’ll ever get.” He has the audacity to smile. “And if I were you, I would enjoy your cushy life as a high-ranking executive’s wife and show your husband a bit more appreciation. You can start by staying in your lane and not asking any more questions.”

“I need to go for a drive.” I stand to my feet.

“I’ll take you wherever you want to go after we finish eating.” The look in his eyes sends another chill through my body. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to drive for a while. The brakes on my BMW that I bought for you sounded squeaky the other day.”

“No, they didn’t.”

“They did,” he says. “Ricky is currently on his way to take it the dealership so they can look at it for us.”

For you.

As if on cue, the sound of the garage door opening cuts between us.

“Don’t worry.” He shrugs. “I took out your two little duffle bags when I came home. They’re in the laundry room waiting to be unpacked.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond to that. “In the meantime, Ricky will drive you to work, take you on your errands, and help you get wherever you need to go until—”

“Until you decide the brakes are supposedly fixed?”

“Until I’m sure that we’ll never have this conversation again,” he says. “Whenever you’re done thinking about making a mistake and can focus on building a family with me.”

“I’m never having sex with you again, Nate.”

“Then you’ll have yourself to blame for another problem down the line.” He returns to his seat, picking up his fork. “Can you pass the pepper, please?”

I remain still, frozen.

“Autumn, the pepper.”

I’m tempted to pick up the shaker and throw it in his face, but I conceal my rage under a soft sigh. Then I swallow my hatred and slide the pepper his way.

“Thank you for making everything about our marriage so much clearer.” I force myself to say.

“I’m happy to do that for you anytime.” He clears his throat, returning to one of our usual scenes. “Would you like waffles in the morning?”

“That would be nice.”

Silence.

Even though I hate the very sight of him at this moment—the very thought of uttering another word in his psychotic presence—I will myself to complete the next round of our dead-end marriage game. 

“How was your day today?” I ask. 

“Very good. I’m a week and a half away from closing that multi-million-dollar deal I mentioned to you months ago. Now that I think about it, I’m sure the additional windfall will come in handy whenever we’re ready to try for… you know.”

I’ll never know.

He feeds me the scraps of his nonexistent day—sans the mistress—and I stuff bites of food into my mouth whenever I need to. I never give him a glimpse of my entire hand—never let on that my escape plan has an escape plan.

I’m not naïve enough to believe he wouldn’t take back “his” car once he found out that I wanted to leave.

The duffle bags were for show, not tell.

I may have been eighteen, young, and dumb when we married, but I’m not that girl anymore, and he’s stupidly unaware that he hasn’t seen the real woman I’ve become in years.

For the rest of the evening, I play my role in what will be one of our final shows. I allow him to press a kiss against my cheek when he gets up to take a shower, and I even let him rub my back when he climbs next to me in bed.

And as much as I want to, I don’t flinch or cringe when he runs his fingers through my hair.

I’ve won and he’s lost, but I can’t tell him our game is over just yet. Because according to my mother, “A true winner knows how to delay the ultimate gratification…”

 

End of Episode 6

 

You Don’t Know Me at All

Episode 7

Autumn

Two weeks later

If I’ve timed things properly, Nate should receive the divorce papers at the close of his celebratory lunch today, mere minutes after he’s completed his “multi-million-dollar deal” and told his colleagues that his “beautiful wife” wasn’t able to make it.

And when he races to his car to call me in private, he’ll find a note taped on his steering wheel.

Congratulations on the huge deal. 

I hope you know that I’m entitled to half.  

—Autumn

P.S. You were wrong about me being laughed out of every lawyer’s parking lot. The top attorney in town took one listen to your rant that I secretly recorded over dinner, and he’s taking me on at one hell of a discount. 

P.P.S. I’ve taken everything I want out of the house already. Feel free to move in your mistress.

Not a bad escape plan for someone with “only a high school diploma.”

I pick up my car—a used black Audi I purchased behind his back last year—from my never-mentioned storage lot and take my time driving to my job at Crafts & Notes.

My lawyer warned me that the financials of the divorce could take up to a year to be completed, so he suggested that I find “a more secure job in the meantime, preferably one with benefits.”

I didn’t tell him that fixing instruments can be quite lucrative—just like I never told Nate—but I can understand his logic.

Since it’s not consistent work, and my new hotel room isn’t cheap, I’ve notified all my clients that they’ll need to hold off on sending me anything new for a while.

Unfortunately, Nate’s petty point about my lack of secondary education has a bit of truth to it. The only places that have returned calls for my unimpressive resume are a nanny agency, a private estate, and a dog walking service.

It’ll be worth it in the end, Autumn...

Pinning a name tag to my sweater, I head inside the store and clock in before making a beeline for the yarn aisle.

I’m using my employee discount every day to hoard as many balls as possible until I have to move on. 

I grab a few shades of turquoise, beige, and yellow and make my way to the specialty scissors.

“Autumn?” A shrill voice I can’t wait to forget stops me dead in my tracks. “Autumn, is that you?”

Ugh, Julie. I turn around, taking in the sight of her pushing her stroller.

“I thought that was you!” She smiles. “I can’t believe I caught you during work hours. I came in to buy my Daniel a wooden truck as a reward for not pooping on my floor this week. Exciting, isn’t it?”

“It’s truly riveting.”

“I was thinking that since you and Nate are doing so great that I could come by sometime and help you plan an extra little anniversary surprise.”

“I gave him his extra anniversary surprise a little while ago.”

“Well, maybe—”

“It was divorce papers.” I smile. “I’m a weak and pathetic woman who is walking away from her terrible, dead marriage.”

“What?” She looks as if she’s ashamed to be near me. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t do that. You made me think that you were on track to be a good person and remain as one of my married friends.”

“Well, now I think that you should fuck off and worry about your own marriage,” I say. “Between focusing on your son’s literal shit and trying to get out of the house anytime you can, something tells me the state of your life may need a second look.”

She sucks in a breath and glares at me, pushing her stroller past me and taking a parting elbow shot.

I don’t bother retaliating.

I head toward the paint aisle and stop at the sight of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. 

Mister R is standing in front of the canvases, looking as if he’s been waiting for me. He’s dressed down today—trading in a custom suit for a pair of dark blue jeans and a white T-shirt that clings to his muscles in all the right places. 

A black tattoo snakes along his inner right arm, and as much as I want to step close to decipher it, I can’t help but get lost in the sea of his eyes again. 

All the yarn in my hand suddenly tumbles to the floor, and he picks the balls up one by one, keeping his eyes on mine as he places them on the shelf.

Just like in the bathroom weeks ago, we stare at each other for several moments in silence. The tension and yearning between us is even more palpable than it was before.

“Hello, Autumn,” he says, finally.

“Do I need to file a restraining order?” is all I can think to say.

“Probably.” He smiles. “I tend to research and follow up on the things I like.”

“And if one of those ‘things’ doesn’t like you back?”

“I’m pretty sure this one does.”

Silence.

“I haven’t seen you hiding behind any stop signs or following me on my route home lately,” he says, taking the lead. “I was beginning to think that you’d forgotten about me.”

“I actually have forgotten.” My cheeks heat as he moves closer. “I move on pretty fast these days. Who are you again? Better yet, how did you already know my name?”

He smiles a perfect set of pearly whites, but he doesn’t say anything further.

“Autumn to the front for cashier shift!” The owner suddenly calls over the speakers. “Autumn, can you come to the front so I can take my smoke break?”

I turn away from Mister R and make my way to the front, stopping at the edge of the counter.

When I turn around, he’s right behind me and I’m inhaling the intoxicating scent of his cologne.

“If you’re not here to buy anything,” I pause, unable to think clearly with him standing this close to me, “I have a job to do.”

“I’m here to get something repaired by the luthier.” He points to the black violin case on the counter. “I would like him to restring and repair a crack by early next week, if possible.”

“The luthier is a she. I mean, it’s me,” I say, and he looks somewhat impressed. “Instrument turn-ins are weekends only.”

“I think I’m more than worthy of an exception.”

“Because you think I’m attracted to you?”

“No, I already know that you are,” he says, looking me up down. “It’s because there’s no one else in this store at the moment. Unless you want to count the bobbleheads by the register.”

I blush and snap the sides of the case open, coming face to face with a beautiful maestro old spruce Stradivari—an advanced player’s violin.

Running my hand along its maple side, I notice the rough and familiar engravings on the edge.

For A.R.

From E.R. 

The hairs on the back of my neck stand at full attention.

I repaired a different crack in this violin over a year and a half ago; my very first fix.

The anonymous owner was so impressed that he quadrupled my fee and sent me six more, and shortly after, I had new instruments to fix every week. Mostly his, but a lot of others via word of mouth. 

He never gave me his name, always delivered his requests via courier with a short ‘Thanks’ note, and a woman always dropped off the payment without saying a word.

Nothing more, nothing less.

I look up at Mister R, and his expression confirms that he’s reached the same conclusion.

“I believe this calls for another use of that term you tried to use previously.” He smirks. “What was it again?”

I ignore that question. “What happened to using a courier service to get it to the store because you don’t like being out in public?”

“I still don’t, but my assistant is sick and I’m shorthanded.” He moves closer, pushing a few strands of hair away from my face, setting every nerve in my body on fire. “I have an important question that I desperately need to ask.”

“You don’t strike me as the type that waits for permission.”

“Are you single yet?”

“What?”

“You heard me.” He glances at my left hand. “You wore your ring on the wrong finger at my party, and today you’re not wearing it at all.” He pauses, and I’m not sure whether I should be impressed or concerned by his attention to detail. “Any guy in his right mind would never want you to take it off if you were his, let alone allow you to get anywhere near me, so there must not be a steady relationship.”

“There isn’t anymore, but I’m starting to think that your visit today is far from a coincidence.”

“I just told you that I look into the things I like.”

“Who’s the stalker now?”

He smiles. “Let’s consider this part of my visit more of a necessary background check.”

I raise my eyebrow, and he pulls a business card from his pocket.

“I have to be extremely thorough when it comes to whoever I let in my house,” he says, placing it into the front pocket of my pants. “According to my advisor, a ‘Ms. Autumn Jane’ has an interview for a position at my estate next week, but that’s business for later. The initial intention behind my visit was personal.”

I swallow. “You think that the first thing I should do after getting a divorce and starting my life over is give someone else a try?”

“Only if the ‘someone else’ is me…”

The bell over the door rings and a new customer walks inside, but neither of us turns away from each other.

“Look,” I say. “I know you’re probably used to getting whatever you want—whenever you want—but the guy usually has to make the first move if he’s interested.”

“I was planning to when I saw you at my party.” He lowers his voice, looking torn between taking me down on the spot and walking away. “You decided that you needed to leave.”

“You agreed.”

“I shouldn’t have.” He places a few hundred-dollar bills on top of the violin before closing what’s left of the gap between us. “Looking forward to your call.”

“Do you have a first name that you want me to use, or should I just keep mentally referring to you as ‘Mister R’?”

“No.” His lips curve into a smile. “I’ve never really appreciated my first name.”

“You’re still not telling it to me.”

“I’d prefer if you called me Ryder.”

“I have a feeling that’s your nickname.”

“It is.”

“You’re making this extremely difficult.”

“I promise it’ll be easy.” He trails a finger against my bottom lip, tracing every curve of my mouth. “It’s Edward.”

“Edward Ryder?”

“Edward Rochester.”

Why does that sound like a name I’ve read somewhere before?

“You probably have.” He reads my mind and moves his hand away. My body instantly longs for more of his touch.

“I think it’s a conflict of interest for me to take an interview at your estate.” I can’t help but blurt out, now remembering that the person who called me to schedule it never gave me any details about the position. And he never mentioned anything about Mister R being the true client. 

“Then don’t bother coming,” he says. “I can easily find you via another coincidence.”

“Is randomly showing up at my job what you had in mind when you said you’d ‘handle’ me at our next meeting?”

“No, you’ll be under me whenever I do that.” He steps back and looks me over one last time. “I’ll be waiting… unless you take too long.”

End of Episode 7

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