Page 54 of Unmatched

But as I dig my keys out of my pocket, my phone chimes with a message from my brother.

Seth

Yikes, freaking ugly. Lucky you dodged that bullet.

What is that supposed to mean? Denver Editorial is a relatively young but respected local news source. By tomorrow the story will disperse to even more major outlets.

Failing to see the luck.

Seth

Did you READ the article, asshole?

I pause, glancing around for Lydia, an uncomfortable feeling creeping into my gut when I don’t see or hear her anywhere. I swipe back to the feature, forcing myself to absorb the text on the screen.

Caprice’s words are scathing.

As the headline suggests, she tears into six Denver men, although she doesn’t actually name any of them—she doesn’t have to. From her descriptions, it’s pretty easy to figure out at least two of them are well-known politicians, and one sounds a lot like a popular radio personality from a local station. Caprice is an excellent writer, giving just the right amount of detail to paint a clear picture of each guy, so I’m sure the others can be identified by anyone close to them. One is some sort of professional athlete. One is a chef. Another’s a banker in his midfifties. All of them are married with families.

But not a single one of them sounds even remotely like me.

I let out a long, whispering breath, my heartbeat quieting enough that I can tune back in to the sounds of the house. Is Lydia still here? Or did I turn my jackass up so high she left?

I retrace my steps to the kitchen and find her hunched in a chair, focused blank-faced on her phone screen.

I clear my throat. “I um . . . I owe you an apology.”

She raises her head and looks at me.

“Another one,” I add in a shaky voice.

She sits back, folding her arms across her chest.

“I saw Caprice’s email about the article, and I thought?—”

Our eyes meet, and the words dry up in my throat.

“Lydia—I’m so sorry.”

The echo of my apology settles between us in the silence, and I slump against the doorframe, hoping she’ll understand—I’m not just saying sorry for tonight. I’m sorry for being on Unmatched at all, for going to the hotel, for not being more patient or trying harder. I’m sorry for every way I’ve betrayed her trust. Including tonight.

Her eyes traverse my face, then she glances back at her phone. “I’m not in a big hurry for people to know what you did. It was bad enough dealing with it privately.”

I swallow hard, wiping one hand over my face. Of course. Caprice wouldn’t have publicly tied me to a social scandal. Anything she wrote about me would directly impact Lydia and the Pooches. If Lydia had wanted, I guess she could have given permission—let Caprice rake me over the coals for revenge. Instead they both protected me. But my head was so far up my own ass, I couldn’t think of anyone but myself.

Which is how we got here in the first place.

Lydia stands. She’s wearing her robe now, a towel wrapped around her head, posture clearly exhausted. Despite that, or maybe even because of it, I find myself wanting to pull her to me, let her hair down so I can run my fingers through it and down over her hips. Needy for the comfort of her warmth, her skin. I think of Jess and Izzy’s podcast and bite the inside of my cheek, realizing I might have blown my chance to try any of those new ways to touch her, bring her pleasure, draw us back together.

But if this was the last straw, if she asks me to leave, I’ll respect that. She clearly deserves better.

With a sigh, she gestures at the packed duffle bag still gripped in my hand. “So, now that we’ve established that I didn’t betray you...” She pauses just long enough for that to really sting. “Are you coming or going?”

I furrow my brow, studying her face carefully.

“It’s Tuesday. I’m keeping track. We’ve still got what, three more weeks?”

My mind spins in a circle before I realize what she means. “We, ah...” I take a deep breath. “You mean you’re still willing?”

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