Page 22 of Rebound

Ashley is charming, but she’s also kind of exhausting. Her endless enthusiasm, the constant questions, the harmless flirting—it’s hard to keep up with her. I’m not sure if it’s the age gap or just that I’m not firing on all cylinders right now, but I’m glad to get her packed away into the Bentley. She’s staying with Mel and Nathan and spent the day doing some early Christmas shopping before we met for dinner. I tuck her bags in beside her and tell her I’ll be in touch soon.

I agreed to mentor Melanie’s younger sister, and she’ll be joining her family company, Edison Holdings, as soon as she finishes her MBA, with a plan to become the new CEO when she’s ready. She’ll be an asset to her family’s company. Ashley is ambitious, bright, focused, and eager to learn. I’m a little concerned that she’s interested in more, but I’m probably overthinking it. I’ve known Ashley for a while now, and she’s naturally flirtatious. I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything by it. I hope to hell she doesn’t, anyway, because she’s only twenty-two. I am not remotely interested in screwing someone young enough to be my daughter.

Frankly, I’m not interested in screwing anyone at all. Apart from my wife, that is—the one who wants a divorce. It’s been a tough couple of weeks, and I keep waiting for that moment when I decide I’m okay with it. I keep waiting for the day when I wake up and know for sure that this is the right thing to do. Still no dice. Instead, I wake up and miss her. Wonder what she’s doing. What she’s wearing. If her pussy still tastes as delicious as it used to.

Fuck. I really need to stop thinking like this. We’ve spoken several times, and she’s remained firm. She’s been polite and pleasant, so unlike her normal self that it freaks me out. I’d prefer it if she acted like a bitch; it would at least show me some fire was still burning.

Then again, as I watch the Bentley disappear into the night, I realize I haven’t exactly been effusive myself. If I miss her so much, why haven’t I done anything about it?

The answer isn’t one I especially like. I’m still not sure. The hurts we’ve inflicted on each other for so long are still fresh in my memory. The scar tissue runs deep and is painful. Plus, I still don’t know if part of me only wants her because I can’t have her—if the competitive streak that all us James men have is leading the way. It wouldn’t be fair to convince her to carry on being my wife if my motives aren’t pure.

I don’t want to rush into either us divorcing or us getting back together—because neither of those options feels completely right. Drake has told us that as the divorce is straightforward, with neither side contesting terms, it could go through in as little as six weeks. I could be officially single by Christmas, though I welcome the delays that will inevitably be caused by the holidays because I have no desire be single just yet.

My phone beeps with a message from Melanie, and I click on the sweet shot of Luke at the dog shelter where she volunteers. He’s sitting next to a goofy-looking brindle pit bull that is licking his head like it’s a lollipop. Grinning at the cuteness overload, I walk into the hotel.

I plan to have a soak in the tub, drink some Scotch, and catch up on some work. My split from Amber hasn’t been good for my professional life. The South Korean deal is looking promising but still needs some final polish. Luisa and I have face-to-face meetings in Seoul the day after tomorrow, and I need to prep. I can’t fuck it up by mooning over my probably-soon-to-be-ex-wife all the time.

Mason also needs me to get back to him on the statement he drafted about me and Amber. I haven’t even opened the damn thing. It will make it all too real.

The elevator pings, and the doors slide open. I stand back to let an elderly couple out, noticing the way they’re holding hands. Almost as cute as Luke and the pit bull, but not something that improves my mood. Old love is even more precious than young love. It’s easy to be in love when you’re a kid and life is a breeze. Standing the test of time, though? A whole different matter.

I hit the button for the penthouse suite, so distracted I barely notice when someone slides their hand between the slowly closing doors just in time. They open in response, and my eyes about fall out of my head when Amber slips through the gap. I knew my wife was back in town, but we didn’t arrange to see each other.

My first thought is: Holy shit, she looks amazing. My second: Fuck, what have I done wrong? Her extraordinary eyes are fixed on me like I’m prey, and her skin is flushed with emotion. She’s not even trying to hide it—she’s absolutely furious. She stalks toward me and shoves me in the chest. Actually fucking shoves me with both hands, so hard I take a step back. I have never seen her so incensed, and truthfully, it’s really fucking hot.

“How long has it been going on?” she snaps, her voice taut, her face inches from mine.

“How long has what been going on? You’re going to need to be more specific, Amber.”

“You and Ashley, that’s what. I just saw you, dripping with shopping bags, laughing away together. You had your hands on her, Elijah, so don’t pretend there’s nothing between you.”

I take in her flashing eyes, the low-key makeup, the natural hair, the dress. The fucking dress. Perfectly wrapped around her slender figure, the color of a dark pink rose. It’s like a petal, begging to be peeled away. It’s cold outside, and I can see her nipples standing proud through the silky fabric. I gulp and drag my gaze back to her face.

“The only thing between me and Ashley is friendship and mutual professional interest. I’m mentoring her as a favor to Melanie. If I did put my hands on her, it was completely innocent, and whatever you think you saw, you didn’t. But may I remind you that you asked me for a divorce. Why the fuck do you care what I do with my hands?”

“I don’t!” she cries, her words and actions completely contradicting each other. “I don’t care. I just… Ihateyou right now!” Her hands clench into fists at her sides, and her nostrils flare as she glares up at me.

Wow. This is a night of firsts. I’m used to her being pissed at me, but I’m not used to her showing it so obviously. So unashamedly. What the hell has gotten into her? Where is all this passion coming from? And if our marriage was truly over, would she care this much?

“You hate me?” I repeat slowly, taking a step forward, desire for her snaking through my veins.

“Yes, I fucking hate you, okay? How many times do I need to say it?”

She raises her hands again and tries to push me away as I bear down on her. I capture both of her delicate wrists in my grasp. “How about you say it one more time.”

I drag her toward me, and she fights it. She tries to pull free, but I tighten my grip and slam her body into mine. “I hate you,” she whispers, her whiskey-brown eyes filling with tears, her lips trembling with emotion.

Her back is reflected in the mirrored walls of the elevator, and I groan at the sight of her long legs and her luscious ass. Her ridiculously high heels. I pin her up against the glass and hold her hands up on either side of her head, ignoring her struggle. Then I grind myself into her, my hips hitting hers, my dick hard as iron.

She lets out a soft moan, and it makes me even harder. I nuzzle into her neck, nipping at the soft skin of her throat as she groans and purrs. Fuck, she smells amazing. I let go of one of her hands and tug open the front of her dress. Her beautiful tits are right there in front of me, perched on the balcony of a lacy pink bra. I suck in a breath and groan with need. Her fingers flutter up to my arm, a halfhearted protest dying on her lips as our eyes meet. Her pupils are blown, and I know mine are too.

She might hate me, but she also fucking wants me as much as I want her. Jesus fuck, this is all such a shitstorm. I should back off and give her the chance to leave. I definitely shouldn’t take advantage of the need I see shining in those astonishing eyes of hers. Ironically, this would all be a lot easier if we weren’t married. If we were just two strangers looking for a casual fuck.

Maybe…

Maybe we could be?

“I see there’s a wedding band on your finger,” I murmur, running the pad of my thumb over the lace of her bra, much more pleased than I should be about the fact she’s still wearing my ring. She leans into my touch, her rigid nipples begging to have my mouth on them. “Are you married?”

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