Page 88 of Unleashed

I slipped out of the apartment and headed for the elevator, my mind racing. Once in the lobby, I was handed a long, white box, heavier than I expected. Balancing it awkwardly, I nearly lost my grip when I felt someone step up behind me—his presence.

"Can I help, Miss Kincaid?" Michael’s voice was low and familiar, sending a shock through me.

I almost dropped the box, startled, but Michael steadied it, his hands grazing mine. He looked too good, even in something as simple as jeans and a black polo, and for a second, my brain short-circuited. His ice-blue eyes bore into me, and I felt that familiar pull I always did when I was around him.

"No, you can’t," I snapped, pulling the box tighter to my chest. "I don’t want to talk to you. You’ve ignored me all week."

"That was a mistake," he said, voice smooth and unapologetic. "Can I come up with you?"

My heart raced. "NO!" I blurted out, louder than I meant to. I couldn’t let him upstairs—not with Slade in my apartment. Michael’s expression faltered, his surprise flickering across his face.

"I’m sorry," I added, more quietly now. "I’m still entertaining my guest."

His gaze sharpened. "I see." His tone was flat. "And I’m disturbing you."

"Yes, you are," I replied, my voice firm. "We can talk tomorrow."

Michael hesitated, eyes searching mine for a moment before he leaned in, pressing a kiss to my cheek. He lingered, his breathwarm against my skin, before he pulled back. "I guess it’ll wait, then," he murmured, and with that, he turned and walked away, leaving me frozen in place, the elevator doors wide open behind me.

“Miss Kincaid?” The concierge called out. I pulled myself back to reality at the sound of his voice.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I glanced at Michael who looked tortured. His face contorted and jaw bulged as he clenched his teeth. I knew I was hurting him but he hurt me first.

“Very,” I said distractedly as I stepped inside the car and hit the button to close the doors.

When I reentered my apartment, Slade was no longer in the living room. I called his name.

“I’m in bed,” his raised voice came back.

“That’s mighty presumptuous of you.”

“I’m not presuming anything, I’m tired.”

“I’ll be right in.”

I hunted through my cabinets and found a large crystal vase. I filled it with water and arranged the nineteen white roses and one red in the bunch before I pulled the card off the box. Slipping the cream-colored cardstock out of the envelope, I read what Michael had written.

Morgan,

I’m not good at relationships. I tend to brood, but you already knew that. I’m afraid I’m fallingfor you. I think I love you. The white roses are for an apology, the red one is for my heart.

Michael

I read the card again,each word sinking deeper into my thoughts. His sentiment lingered, stirring something in me that I couldn’t ignore. I was in trouble, real trouble, because I think I was falling for him. But the problem wasn’t just him. I think I was in love with them both.

I left the flower box on the counter, my mind spinning, and headed to the bedroom. The soft hum of the television filled the quiet space, but Slade was already asleep, sprawled on his side. I paused in the doorway, staring at him. Could I see a future with this man? Was he the type to settle down, to build a life with?

Slade was kind, thoughtful, always attuned to my needs—both in and out of bed. He listened when I talked, cared about what I thought, and would protect me without a second thought. There was a warmth to him, a stability that made me feel safe. He’d make a great father, I was sure of that.

But then there was Michael. He was unpredictable, his moods shifting like a storm—exciting one moment, frustrating the next. He challenged me, pushed my boundaries, especially in bed. There was something electric about the way he demanded control, how he always knew exactly what I needed, even before I did. He was more of a mystery, though. What did he really want? Could I trust him with the future, with forever?

My thoughts were a tangled mess as I stripped off my clothes, slipping into one of Slade’s discarded white t-shirts. The fabric was soft, comforting, carrying the scent of him as I climbed into bed. The moment I tucked myself into his body, he instinctively wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer in his sleep.

"Slade?" I whispered, testing the silence, but he didn’t stir.

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