Absently, I go to press a kiss to the top of her head and then stop myself.

  What the fuck are you doing, Holden? You’ve spent your whole fucking life to get to this point, creating opportunities to fulfill the promise you made to Mase.

  You’ve just completed the first step. You have several more to go.

  And now you’re, what? What even is this that you’re doing? That you’re allowing to happen?

  This can’t happen.

  And yet aren’t I the one who made it happen? The one who planned this. Who wanted to do this. Who chose to stay the night when the jet was fueled and waiting on the tarmac for us after the performance last night.

  I scrub a hand over my face and sigh.

  “You okay?” Rowan murmurs, lifting her head up and against mine.

  “Yeah. Fine. I just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Nothing.” I do in fact press a kiss to her head this time and keep my lips there when I answer. “It’s nothing.”

  “Dreading going back to reality?” she teases.

  “Mmm.” If she only knew what that reality was. “Something like that.”

  She reaches out for her cell phone across the table. “Maybe I should turn it back on just in case—”

  “No.” I take it from her and toss it out of reach as my other hand slides around the front of her neck and prompts her head to lean all the way back. “Not yet.” I press my lips to hers in an upside-down kiss. “Can we just forget the world for a few more hours until we land?”

  That’s not going to fix shit, Knight.

  Her lips spread in a smile against mine before she kisses me back again, but this time our tongues touch and a soft moan falls from between her lips. “No complaints here.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  But when she snuggles back up against me and falls asleep as we ascend, all I can do is lean my head back and stare at the ceiling.

  The thoughts and plans that constantly shift and meld when I can’t sleep are there like always.

  But now there is something new mixed in.

  Now there’s Rowan.

  And I’m not fucking sure how she fits.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Rowan

  The jet is fueled and ready when you are.

  I reread the text from Holden as I pull into the TinSpirits’ parking lot. My smile is automatic. Just like it has been every time I think of the past forty-eight hours. The magic of it. The settling into the notion that I’ve fallen for him. The realization that I’m pretty sure it’s mutual, and what exactly do I think about that? Even worse, what if it is mutual and he refuses to accept it?

  Because if there’s one thing I know about Holden Knight, it’s that I don’t know him.

  But whatever it is, it feels good.

  Isn’t that all I need to know for now?

  And isn’t that why I’m here, making a quick stop before I head to the airport for my meetings with the GWA representatives at their site?

  To give him something back—a little token of my appreciation—for all the effort (and money) that he put into this weekend.

  I bypass my personal parking spot and pull right up to the front doors. It’s a Sunday so the place is a ghost town, which is exactly what I was hoping for. I grab my master key and head inside.

  My cell rings when I’m in the elevator. It’s Chad. Again.

  I sigh and roll my eyes. We need to put a moratorium on our mothers getting together—which lately seems like it’s every fucking weekend. Because them spending time together means more plotting, more planning, more pushing Chad to win me over.

  I haven’t returned his calls—or even listened to his voicemails—from the last few days, and that’s why.

  Our floor is empty as I make my way through it, detouring at my office for my spare set of keys that will open Holden’s office.

  There’s no way he’d mind me being in here for the sole purpose of dropping off a surprise.

  I unlock and open his door and set my purse down, pulling my present out of it. I open the velvet box and smile at the cuff links nestled inside. They’re brushed platinum, round with a sunburst design engraved in their centers like rays of sunshine. I saw them nestled in a jeweler’s case when I was shopping in New York and I had to have them. I had to thank him in some way other than words—and really good sex—and I thought these were perfect.

  But rather than have them delivered by courier as he did mine, I figured I’d beat him at his own game. He went into my drawer and got my sapphires. I’m going to go into his drawer and leave his cuff links.

  I close the lid and move behind the desk, opening the top drawer without really thinking. It didn’t bug me that he went into my top drawer, so I really don’t think twice about doing the same to his. But when I open it up and am greeted by a stack of papers, I simply stand there and stare, my brain working to register what I’m seeing.

  Why does the top of this contract look different from the one he showed me?

  It’s the old contract. The one without my seat on the board.

  It has to be.

  But then why is the date on the top of its cover page from this past Thursday?

  I hate the unsteady way my pulse beats and my breath rasps as I try to rationalize away my sudden, irrational fear.

  Curiosity piqued and privacy be damned, I pick up the binder-clipped stack of papers, cuff links forgotten.

  I flip through to the section I’d memorized. The addendum that added a transfer of shares over to me, Rowan Olivia Rothschild, upon the completion of the sale. But that page, which was in the papers Holden gave me, isn’t in this set. There is no Addendum A on page thirty-three.

  “It’s an old contract,” I mutter, but my heart thunders in my chest as I flip to the last page. As I see inked signatures by Holden Knight of Knight Holdings, LLC, and Rhett Rothschild, CEO of Rothschild Enterprises, aka TinSpirits. As I take in the date signed.

  My hands tremble as adrenaline surges through my body. As disbelief courses through me faster than my pulse pounds.

  He lied to me.

  I put my faith in Holden Knight, and he fucking lied to me.

  He never intended to give me the board seat or the ownership. He never planned on having me be on equal footing with him. He simply conned me into thinking I was so he could keep an eye on me.

  So he could control me.

  So he could ensure the safety of his precious fucking deal.

  And then he slid into my bed when he realized he couldn’t.

  He slid into it and made me feel when I didn’t want to feel. He made me believe when I’d never thought to before. He made me hope when I had never put much faith in that emotion to begin with.

  He used me in every sense of the word.

  And when all was said and done, when the deal was signed and I’d been thoroughly screwed, he gave me the most thoughtful gift anyone had ever given me solely as a means of distraction.

  Not because he genuinely wanted to.

  But because guilt is a powerful emotion.

  Because he had to try to salvage our working relationship somehow.

  Because he felt bad.

  The taste of salt hits my lips. My own tears streaming down my face. My own heart lodged in my throat.

  I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t process.

  I don’t know how I manage it, but I straighten the stack of papers and put them back in the drawer how I found them. I shut it, then stand there and look at the closed drawer.

  Oh. My. God.

  This is so much worse than I could have imagined. He betrayed me. He looked me in the eyes, he let me be vulnerable with him, all while sharpening the knife to stab me in the back.

  I rush from the office, locking the door behind me, and get on the elevator as fast as I can. It’s only when I’m tearing out of the parking lot that I think about the cuff links I left on the top of his desk.

  He’ll know I was there.

  He’ll know I left them.

  But will he know that I know about everything else?

  I pound the heel of my hand against the steering wheel, the tears coming harder now.

  When was he going to tell me?

  Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was going to string me along, have me get everything done he wanted, and then let me know that oopsie, he wasn’t going to uphold his end of the bargain.

  I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. I sure as hell don’t want to go to the airport and hop on his private jet bound for Georgia.

  But if I stay here, he’ll seek me out. He’ll demand to know what’s wrong.

  If I go, I’ll have a few days away from him. A few days where I can truly process the heartbreak—because yes, fuck it, this is heartbreak in so many ways—before I have to face him again and … and what?

  Act like nothing happened?

  Confront him and let him know I was in his desk?

  The pain in my chest is crushing. The memories of this weekend are more than soured. The tears on my cheeks are like acid.

  I don’t know.

  I just don’t know.

  But I head to the airport.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  I need the reprieve.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  The distance.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  The time to think and plan and process.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  I ignore the constant ringing of my cell, the bombardment of Chadwick Williams and all that he is.

  I park my car.

  I walk to the hangar.

  I walk up the airstairs and onto the plane.

  I plaster a fake smile on my lips for Rhonda and her judgmental looks.

  I buckle myself in.

  And when the plane takes off my chest hurts so fucking bad. All I want to do is cry. Is rage. Is throw this glass in my hand against the wall.

  But I don’t. Won’t. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of getting to me regardless of how much I loathe him right now.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “What,” I snap, sick of the sound and needing it to stop. Needing everyone to just let me fucking be. “Leave me alone, Chad. Just leave me alone.”

  “Rowan. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  Holden

  This is the last place I want to fucking be.

  The Westmore Country Club. The bane of my existence and the place that holds some of my sourest memories.

  But I’m playing the game.

  I’m kissing the babies and shaking the hands and hating every fucking second of it. But when Audrey calls and says I need to be somewhere, I need to be somewhere.

  The question is why do I fucking need to be here?

  I get you’re working from home for a few days, but isn’t that supposed to make you happier? More relaxed? Quit being such a surly asshole because I’m sick of it.

  Weren’t those Audrey’s words?

  And why are you being a fucker, huh, Knight?

  Why haven’t you slept for longer than two hours at a time in days and why are you checking your phone every few goddamn seconds?

  It comes down to one thing—Rowan.

  She left on the fishing expedition to Georgia to try to reel in a new supplier. I know she got there because the fucking jet is mine … but I’ve heard little from her since.

  Her texts are short. My unanswered phone calls are met with a quick responding text that she’s busy with clients. My late-night calls are replied to the following morning that she had fallen asleep.

  It’s fucking maddening.

  It’s been three days and I’m about to get on the jet and head there myself.

  And now, of course, I’m here. At the teal-and-white hell that seems to be where every fucking business meeting is preferably held.

  And Rowan’s new client, GWA, the one she left my dick high and dry on, has requested just that. A meeting. Here. With me.

  The only explanation they gave Audrey is that they want to go over everything with me. They’d better watch where they step, or I might squash the deal altogether if they think that going over Rowan’s head and coming to me without her knowing is a good decision. Or if they hint in any way possible that they don’t think she’s capable because she’s a woman.

  “Yes?” I answer my phone as I enter the outdoor patio and bar area where people come and relax after a long, taxing day at golf. Like they know anything about taxing work here.

  “Akiro just called,” Audrey says. “He’s running about ten minutes late. He apologizes profusely.”

  I nod as I look around. “Good. That’ll give me time to have a drink or two.”

  “To what? Take the edge off? Yeah, you might want to make that three.”

  “Funny.”

  “It’s not funny when it’s true.” She snorts.

  “Put in a call to James,” I say of my pilot. “Have him on standby in case I need to get to Georgia when I’m done here.”

  “Why would you need to go to Georgia?” she asks in that knowing tone of hers.

  “Audrey,” I warn. “I appreciate you trying to keep me on track, but I’m a grown man who can manage his own distractions.”

  “Just like I’m a long-term employee who knows when her boss is losing his grip on things. You pay me to keep you on track.”

  Fuck.

  Am I pissed because she’s right, or am I pissed because I don’t want to admit to her being right?

  “Right now I’m paying you to back the fuck off,” I state, irritated with not being able to reach Rowan and pissed that I’m irritated about it.

  “Noted.” Her voice is clipped, the reprimand not sitting well with her. “I’ll get in touch with James, but I believe the jet’s having regular maintenance being done to it. I had to authorize the work yesterday.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  “Whatever holds your interest in Georgia can probably handle herself.” Considering she helped me with accommodations in Manhattan, I know she knows something is going on. But in true Audrey fashion, she’ll only hint at it.

  And in true Holden fashion, I won’t confirm shit.

  “Goodbye, Audrey.”

  “Goodbye, grumpy.”

  I make my way across the patio to the bar and startle when an arm is sloppily hung over my shoulder. “Holden. My man. My boss. The asshole who is fucking us over,” Chad slurs as he weaves back and forth on his feet.

  I grit my teeth and try to politely step aside, but Chad just holds on tighter.

  “That’s okay. You can fuck me over all you want because I won’t feel a single goddamn thing.”

  “Clearly,” I say, finally extricating myself from his hold, now needing a drink more than fucking ever.

  “I’m celebrating. Did you know that?” he asks, grin goofy and eyes glazed. “Finally fucking celebrating.”

  “Good for you,” I mutter and hold my finger up to get the bartender’s attention for when he has a moment.

  “We’re finally going to fix this. Finally going to say check-fucking-mate. Finally … finally getting what’s mine.”

  That’s a lot of fucking finallys.

  “A scotch, please,” I order all while taking in my surroundings. I see the Rothschilds at a table with the Williamses. Or at least I can presume the round-bellied motherfucker in the police uniform is his dad.

  “C’mon, Knight. Don’t be such a hard-ass. Toast with us.”

  The scotch is slid across the bar. My first sip can’t come soon enough. “What are we toasting?” I ask, completely disinterested.

  “To Mr. and Mrs. Williams.”

  “Great. Perfect.” I glance at his parents as the chief slips his arms around Florence’s shoulders and presses a kiss to her cheek. An anniversary? The Westmore elite will find any excuse to celebrate around here. “Congrats to them.”

  “We are in fact talking about me.”

  “You?”

  “Yep. Me.”

  “And why’s that?” Not like I really fucking care.

  “It’s finally happening.” He sways but his grin grows wider. “I’m finally getting married.”

  Now there’s a bright spot in my fucking day. Chad married means he’ll leave Rowan the fuck alone. No more touching. No more sharing appetizers. No more anything.

  “No shit? Congrats.” I tap my glass against his simply to go through the motions. “And who’s the lucky lady?”

  Chad throws his head back and laughs before looking me straight in the eye and saying, “Rowan.”

  What.

  The.

  Fuck.

  “Didn’t she tell you? She finally said yes. We’re getting married.”

  I choke on my sip.

  This is a joke.

  It has to be a fucking joke—a revenge prank for them getting screwed out of the cash they think is theirs that’s still in escrow.

  I don’t respond to Chad.

  Can’t.

  All I can think about is getting the fuck out of here. Is getting ahold of Rowan.

  I’m off the patio and into a back room of the clubhouse without responding to Chad. My heart is pounding and fuck if my hands aren’t sweaty as I try to pull my phone out of my fucking pocket.

  The phone rings. “Pick up the fucking phone, Rowan,” I order.

  Her voicemail picks up. My hand fists. The need to punch something owns me.

  Goddamn it.

  I call again.

  Same fucking result.

  My throat feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. My heart feels like it’s trying to squeeze its way through the space that’s left.

  When my phone rings in my hand I all but jump. I can’t answer it fast enough.

  “Rowan?” Her name sounds as breathless and desperate as I feel.

  “What? I’m busy.”

  This is not the same woman I kissed goodbye after Manhattan.

  “I just talked to Chad. Tell me he’s wrong, Rowan.” My demand is met with her absolute silence. “Tell me he’s fucking wrong.”

  Silence stretches.

  Eats up the distance.

  Weaves into my chest and squeezes my lungs until there is no fucking air left.