Page 22 of Forbidden Fruit

I can believe that part, at least. Rebecca is brilliant—anyone with half a brain can see that.

"Five years is a long time," I observe carefully.

"It is." Something shifts in her eyes—a flicker of doubt, perhaps? But it's gone as quickly as it appeared. "Anyway, what about you? Any pets at your new place?"

I allow the change of subject. "No pets. My travel schedule is too unpredictable."

"That must get lonely sometimes."

Her perception catches me off guard. I rarely admit to loneliness, even to myself. "Sometimes," I concede. "But I've gotten used to it.

"Is that why you bought this place? To have somewhere that feels like home?"

I consider her question, watching the sunlight play on the pool's surface. "Partly. I also like the anonymity. In New York, I'm always Clive Bishop, CEO. Here, I'm just another American with a vacation home."

"Humble," she teases, raising an eyebrow.

"Alright, perhaps not 'just another American,'" I concede with a smile. "But you know what I mean. There's a freedom in stepping away from expectations."

"I wouldn't know," she says quietly, almost to herself.

I study her profile, noticing a certain heaviness in her expression that wasn't there moments ago. "What do you mean?"

Becca hesitates, running her finger around the rim of her glass. "Nothing, really. It's just—" She stops, glancing toward the house as if checking for eavesdroppers. "I've always been the 'good girl.' The one who checks all the boxes. Perfect grades, perfect job, perfect relationship..."

Her voice trails off, and I find myself leaning slightly closer. In the five years I've known Rebecca, I've never heard her speak this candidly.

"And is it? Perfect?" I ask, my voice lower than I intended.

She meets my eyes for a beat too long, then looks away. "It should be. On paper, everything's exactly where it should be." She takes a long sip of her drink. "Sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Sometimes it's easier to be honest with someone who isn't directly involved in your life," I offer. "No judgment, no expectations."

"But you are involved," she says. "You're Jack's stepfather."

"Ex-stepfather," I correct gently. "And I've always considered myself more of a... reluctant mentor."

That earns me smile number ten—a small one, but genuine.

"Can I ask you something, Clive?" She shifts to face me more directly, tucking her legs beneath her.

"Of course."

"Why did you agree to this trip? After the divorce, I mean. It must be awkward."

I consider my answer carefully. I can hardly tell Becca the truth—that I came because she would be here, that I wanted to see her away from Jack's influence, that I've been fighting this inappropriate attraction for years.

"Kay can be... persuasive," I say instead. "And despite everything, we're still family in some ways. Old habits."

"Like the way you still twist your wedding ring that isn't there anymore," she observes, nodding toward my left hand.

I glance down, surprised to find my thumb rubbing the empty space where my ring used to be. "Perceptive," I acknowledge. "Fifteen years leaves its mark."

"Do you miss her?" Rebecca asks, then immediately backtracks. "I'm sorry, that's too personal."

"It's alright." I set my glass down on the small table between us. "I miss the idea of what we could have been. The reality was something else entirely."

She nods thoughtfully. "I understand that feeling."

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