Page 6 of Since Always

"Of course, I miss it. But when we got married, I was 23 years old. My biggest concern was surviving law school. I only thought I knew what busy was. I could have a relationship and at least invest some time into it."

And even so, I failed at it.

"I don't know. I don't have time for it either, but I just know it's better when she's around."

"I am happy for you, man. I really am. I know the past couple of years have been really fucking hard."

I want to tell him I am proud of him. I know he didn't expect his dad to die so young. Didn't expect to take over one of the biggest tech companies in the world at 33 years old. And yet, these last three years have shown he is more than capable of filling his father's shoes. But I don't say that, of course, because it's not how we are.

"You know, I think maybe you're not as big of a fuck-up as I thought you were," I say instead.

He grins.

The Sloane's Aspen mansion sits high up Red Mountain, known better to the rest of the world as "Billionaire's Mountain." Although, at 20,000 square feet, this house is almost half the size of their house in Denver, I prefer it over that one. Having started planning on it just a year after meeting Jessica, it is a love letter from Jack Sloane to his young bride.

The house is impressive throughout, but my favorite part lies in a building attached to the main residence by a narrow walkway; a sixty-meter long indoor pool, a full-size gym, a sauna, a massage room, and the thing I am looking forward to right now, a fifty-jet hot tub.

Chris left to meet up with Stephanie around noon, and I managed one more run before I realized how much pain I was in. I used to ski all day for a week straight, but now I chalk that up on the list of things my 37-year-old body rebels against. The list is getting longer by the day.

The sound of splashing echoes as I open the door. Cass is doing laps; her long, lean muscles slicing through the water with every stroke. The smell of chlorine overpowers me as I stop, just inside the doorway of the humid room, to watch her.

Well, fuck.

I'm going to have to get myself together around her. It caught me off guard when she walked out of my bathroom yesterday. I don't think it went unnoticed that I couldn't help but stare at her slick porcelain skin peeking out from under the towel. Or that I couldn't help but let my eyes fall to those pouty lips and trail down the curves of her shoulders, the length of her legs. It obliterated every plan I had for acting like everything was still normal.

Sometimes, I really hate myself.

At dinner last night, while I tried to avoid meeting her eyes, I realized that I will have to fall back onto Plan B.

Just don't be alone with her.

I turn to head back out the door when she stops swimming.

"Hey, O," she says, pulling herself up onto the edge of the pool.

Goddamnit.

"Hey."

"You going for a swim?"

She is spilling out of her bathing suit top, and I am trying not to notice. Every part of me is screaming that I need to run, but I can't think of any excuse that would sound legitimate, given that I am standing here in my swimming trunks.

"I was going to soak for a few in the hot tub," I say. She flinches at the tone of my voice. I know I sound clipped, and I hadn't exactly meant to, but maybe it's for the best—if it keeps her away from me.

"Well, don't let me stop you." I've annoyed her. Good.

I walk over to the hot tub, testing the water before stepping in. Cass slips back in the pool and resumes her laps, and I can't help but watch her out of the corner of my eye. She is like her mom in the water—graceful and strong. Jessica taught her to swim in this very pool.

I pull my attention away from her and grab my phone to distract myself. I am on vacation, but I can't completely ignore what's going on at work. I'm not sure I even know how to turn it off these days.

I shoot off responses to the things I can answer with little thought, and forward several emails to the correct members of my staff.

To my left, the water continues to splash. I try to tune it out.

After what feels like an excruciatingly long time, she finishes her laps and pulls herself out of the pool. I use every ounce of willpower to keep my eyes glued to my screen, not wanting to create any more uncomfortable moments between us.

"See you later," she says, as she pulls open the door. There is something else in her voice. Anger? Hurt?

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