Page 36 of Sweet Sinners
I exhale heavily, sinking back into my chair and yanking open the drawer to grab the bottle of Advil. Shaking two into my palm, I mutter, "Today is going to leave bruises."
After an exhausting press interview—every response carefully scripted and lawyer-approved—and back-to-back meetings that felt more like interrogations, my prediction had come true. The day was brutal, relentless.
I don't leave the office until after seven, but for once, I refuse to drag it home with me. I crank the radio loud enough to drown out every thought, roll the windows down, and scream along to the songs until my voice is shredded raw. Maybe I look crazy. Maybe I sound even worse. But for the first time today, I don't care.
By the time I pull into the driveway, my hair’s a windblown disaster and my throat burns like hell, but I feel lighter—like I’ve finally shaken off some invisible chains. It’s not a permanent fix. It doesn’t change reality. But if I can’t control anything else, I can at least lose myself in music until I feel free.
I haven’t touched alcohol since beers with Connor, and for the first time since the accident, I don’t even crave it. I don’t need it to numb the edges, to soften the harsh reality. Tonight, music is enough.
A tiny rebellion. But a victory, nonetheless.
I kill the engine, sitting for a moment in the newfound silence, letting it wrap around me like a comforting blanket. But then my stomach growls sharply, shattering the brief peace. Instinctively, I place my palm over it, already half-hoping—damn it—that Connor made dinner again.
The thought is dangerously domestic, stupidly hopeful, and soutterly wrong.
I don’t know what bothers me more, the fact that he might have cooked, or how badly I want him to have done exactly that.
The realization leaves a sour twist in my stomach as I step into the house, and any expectation evaporates instantly. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
No movement, no warmth drifting from the kitchen.
Nothing.
My irritation flares as I jerk open the refrigerator with unnecessary force, scanning the shelves with growing frustration. There’s nothing quick. Nothing easy. And right now, I don’t have the patience or strength to put together something worth eating.
I want something hot. Instant. Effortless. Something I can consume without thinking or caring.
Yanking out my phone, I quickly order takeout and toss it onto the countertop. Without another thought, I head for the stairs. If dinner’s not going to give me the release I need, then a long, scorching shower will have to do. I’ll scrub away today’s failures, this lingering ache, until it’s nothing but steam and water circling the drain.
The day’s burdens are still there, waiting, whispering.
But for tonight, just tonight, I choose not to listen.
Chapter eighteen
Connor
Ilosetrackoftimeworking on the stained glass, completely consumed by the delicate, meticulous rhythm of creating something new. When I finally glance at the clock, it’s already past eight-thirty.
Shit.
I was supposed to cook dinner. It grounds me, something solid to hold onto when everything else spins out of my grasp. Exhaling slowly, I push back from the desk, stretching the tightness from my shoulders, and head downstairs, deliberately avoiding even the slightest glance toward the living room. I hold my breath as I pass it, only releasing it once I'm safely in the kitchen.
And there she is.
Perched on the island, her bare legs crossed, wielding chopsticks effortlessly as she moves through a box of sushi. A takeout bag sits crumpled at her side, forgotten, but it’s not what holds my attention. It’s her. It’s always her.
Those tiny cotton shorts barely conceal anything, drawing my gaze down to the smooth curve of her thighs. Her loose crop top slips carelessly off one shoulder, revealing the delicate slope of her collarbone and a teasing flash of toned stomach. Her hair is damp, twisted up in a messy bun, a few loose strands clinging to her flushed neck. Freshly showered. Relaxed. She looks brighter, more alive than she has in days, her deep blue eyes flicking between the screen of her phone and the food in front of her.
God, her lips look soft.
That strand of hair—the one slipping free, trailing along her jawline—I’d give anything to brush it back, to trace the heat of her skin—
I force myself to look away and stalk to the fridge, jerking the door open harder than I need to.
"I got you food," she says, breaking the quiet. Her voice is casual, almost gentle, too casual.
My hand freezes midair, hovering over a bottle of water. She can’t mean that, not the way it sounds. That would imply she'd thought about me, intentionally done something kind. Without obligation. Without a need to celebrate a win, or thank me for my help. The possibility tightens in my chest, uncomfortable and unfamiliar.
