Page 32 of Off-Limits Bad Boy

The office is meticulous, not a paper out of place, which makes the half-folded letter on his desk stand out like a sore thumb. My curiosity wins over the guilt gnawing at my conscience as I hurry toward his desk.

“Who hand writes letters nowadays?” I mean, texts exist. Even email would be less of a throwback than this. I’m muttering under my breath to myself as I pick up the cream-colored paper, noting the bold strokes of Kade's handwriting on the front. I unfold the single sheet, noticing the name at the top: Stella.

And beneath that, the start of a letter that isn’t for me to read, but it hits me like a pillowcase full of quarters swung by a very angry person.

My trembling fingers hold the perfectly smooth - save for one crease - paper.

“It was so nice to see you again,” I say, reading the words aloud, every single one twisting in my gut. “What we had in the past was amazing, I can’t lie about that. But, well, it's different now, isn't it?”

And the name Stella clicks. She’s the redhead he loved in high school. I remember her, her beautiful blue eyes, her playful freckles, her sweet attitude. But didn’t she run off and marry someone else? So why is he writing this letter to her?

And what does he mean? Different how? Better? Worse? Nonexistent? I scan the lines for a clue, for any sign of what Kade feels for his old high school sweetheart, but the letter cuts off abruptly, leaving only questions filling the rest of the blank page.

“Damn you, Kade,” I whisper, feeling a full cycle of emotions rolling through me.

My heart races, pounding against my ribcage as if demanding answers. Is Stella back in his life? Is she the reason he's been so cold and distant today? And how the heck do I confront him about a letter I have no right to be reading?

But his empty office offers no answers.

My breath hitches, still holding the half-written confession, each word a painful strike in my chest. The room is silent, save for my ragged breaths. The words blur. He's not mine—never was, never will be. Yet the pain of discovering Stella's reappearance in his life feels like being lit on fire.

It’s all I can do not to crinkle the paper in my hands, to ball it up and throw it away as if that’ll change the reality staring me in the face.

I should place it back, walk away from this invasion of privacy, pretend I never saw it or question him. But it's too late to unsee what I’ve read, and my heart won’t let me forgive and my mind will never forget.

“Emma?”

I jolt and whip around, the letter clutched in my fingers like evidence of a crime. His dark eyes lock on mine, filling with a mix of shock and something darker, more dangerous. Kade's presence fills the room, overwhelming, a silent scream in the loudly quiet room.

“Kade,” I whisper, my throat tight, words failing me as our standoff stretches into eternity. His gaze drops to the letter in my hands, and the air around us fills with an unseen, but felt, tension.

He doesn't say a word, but his eyes speak all the accusations his lips don’t.

“Who's Stella?” I want him to lie to me, to tell me that what I think is going on isn’t true. But we both know better, and I can see it in his eyes.

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking wildly as he steps toward me, closing the gap between us with a predator's grace.

“Emma, put it back,” he says, his voice barely controlled. I asked him who Stella is, he couldn't possibly think I didn’t read it, or that putting it down now will change anything.

I stand my ground, glaring at him.

“Who's Stella?” I ask again, my voice stronger in the oxygen less space between us.

Kade's expression turns to stone, his piercing gaze never leaving mine as he takes a deliberate step closer. “It's not what you think,” he says, voice low and steady.

Does he really know what I think, though? And why isn’t he answering me?

I swallow hard, my resolve weakening. “Tell me the truth, Kade.” Lifting the letter, I wave it at him so he knows I’m not going to let this go.

His expression tightens. “You know Stella. She was my high school sweetheart.”

The words hang between us, and I wonder where things went wrong. I know he’s not mine, so why do I feel so betrayed by this?

What can I possibly say? What can I do? Get mad at a man who isn’t mine for talking to his high school sweetheart? I’m the one in the wrong here, I’m the one acting like an insane woman.

He releases a breath and makes his way behind the desk, sitting down in his chair, as if this is the most inconsequential conversation he’s had all day. “She came back, talking about her divorce, looking to rekindle what we had.”

His words break my heart and I blink back tears, praying he doesn't see them.

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