Page 118 of The Perfect Mistake

I cross my arms. “Like you’re the expert on convenient attraction?”

“Touché,” he says. Then he sighs, and the usual smirk turns into something hesitant. “Look, you once told me that… well. Be careful, but not too careful.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My question comes out harsher than I intended. For all his “Thompsonness,” Gabriel has been nothing but a good husband to Connie these past few months, and I need to trust her judgment.

“Look, the two of you? Didn’t see that coming. But I suspect you didn’t see me and Connie happening, either.” He shrugs. “You’re pretty similar to your sister, and I know her well, so I feel like this applies to you, too. Don’t overthink it.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Right. Thanks.”

“It’ll make sense to you eventually. Now, do you want to drown your sorrows in another glass of scotch, or escape with your tail between your legs? Because I suspect the girls’ conversation will take a while.” He sweeps an arm out, indicating the party around us. “This isn’t a bad place to wait.”

It’s not. They’ve gone out of their way, and it shows. The mix of people is pretty damn great too. No one has come up and tried to pitch to me an event or hint at business deals. This has surpassed my work parties and fundraisers at my kids’ school by a mile.

But I can’t stay here. If Connie doesn’t want to face me… so be it.

“Tell Isabel I took a cab home, and Mac is waiting for her,” I say to Gabriel.

He nods. “All right. Will do.”

“Thanks for the invite tonight.”

“You’re welcome anytime,” he says.

Nodding at him, too, I don’t really know what to say to that, but… all right. I suppose there’s truth to that. We’re family now, after all, even if he’s the last person I ever expected to be my brother-in-law. I can only imagine he feels the same.

“Good luck at the poker tables,” I say.

His grin turns crooked, and a bit sly. “Thanks.”

I leave the raucousness behind, and the sudden quiet of the elevator is jarring. In my mind, I can see Connie silhouetted in the open doorway and hear Isabel’s panicked gasp. Shit… Oh my God.

Yeah.

This was the last thing I wanted or needed.

Maybe it’s a good thing that Connie didn’t talk to me, because I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what to say to her. I run a hand over the back of my neck and consider walking instead of cabbing it. It won’t be quick, but I don’t need swiftness tonight. The kids are on sleepovers. Neither Isabel nor Connie want me near. The office is closed. It feels odd, to not be needed.

I start walking, surrounded by the magic of the city, and try not to think at all. If I do, I know I’ll just feel regret.

Isabel doesn’t come to my bedroom at night.

I hear her when she returns, but the click of the front door and the careful steps across the hardwood floor are so muted that it’s clear she’s trying to sneak in. I don’t go to her room, either. I do check my phone, scroll through our messages, but there are no new ones from her.

I type one out. How did it go? But the memory of my behavior earlier stops me from sending it. I’d lost my fucking mind in that hallway. Something about seeing her talking, enjoying herself, wearing that guy’s Italian-cut suit jacket over her slim shoulders…

I toss in bed. Infuriating. That’s what it had been. And not because she can’t do whatever she wants, but because I don’t have the right to do the same with her in public. Because we’re a secret, and damn it, I wanted us to remain a secret. So, why does that fact still make me see red?

I haven’t felt jealousy in a very long time.

She’s brought it out in me on several occasions. It’s a bitter feeling, like ash on your tongue, and disappointment flaring in your stomach. Maybe it feels more intense with her because I don’t really have her.

I close my eyes. Force the thoughts away. Others rise to the surface instead, like my mind can’t handle the vacuum, and each of them is more impossible than the last.

Isabel living here. Sleeping beside me every night. Me helping her with her career, listening to her recount her days, making her laugh. She’s amazing when she laughs. I love the way her mind works.

What would it be like, to marry again? To be her husband?

I shove my phone face down on the nightstand and turn onto my back. That’s not a thought I can entertain. I know that. She wants kids. She wants me to be present, to be close. I can’t make her a stepmom at twenty-five. Her friends, her family… everyone will see nothing but a cliché. The nanny and the boss. Eventually, she might, too. She might also want more than that. To strike out on her own and build her own life, instead of just slotting into mine.

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