“Oh come on, Amalie. You know how this goes. If you want me to treat you less like my wife and more like a mistress I certainly can try. But don’t you think it would be in your best interest to attempt to rise to the social standing my family will bring you, rather than act like a cheap slut? It would be a shame to see all my hard work undone in a span of weeks.”

“Hard work? What are you even talking about?”

“I put so much time and energy into molding you to be the perfect partner to stand by my side. Especially when I run Moorehead Media with my father. It hasn’t even been two weeks and look at you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the way I look.”

“If you’re more interested in being someone’s mistress, I suppose you’re well on your way there.”

“You really are a vile human being.” Barely contained rage makes her voice gravelly. “How many?”

“How many what?”

“How many women did you cheat on me with? How many were there besides Brittany?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant? Is that your new favorite word? Do you even know? Can you guess?”

“Based on your views of what constitutes cheating, a few, I guess. Not that many.”

“A few? How can you think this is okay?”

“Stop being so obtuse, Amalie. This is how it is. You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t want to get used to it. I don’t want to be with you, not ever. What is it going to take for you to understand that?”

“This isn’t just about you. You’re leaving a big mess behind in New York. Who do you think is dealing with it?”

“Definitely not you.”

“That’s because I’m here. This running and hiding and acting out is juvenile, Amalie. You’re being a spoiled brat, it’s rather tiring.”

“Get out.” She reaches around him and opens the screen door with a hard slam. “Do not think you can manipulate or blackmail me into reconciling. When you get back to New York the annulment papers will be waiting for you to sign. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, further contact will be through my lawyer, otherwise I’ll file a restraining order. Now leave or I’ll call security.”

He stumbles back through the door as she pushes past him. “You’ll regret this, Amalie.”

“I already do, more than you can even imagine. But not for the reasons you want me to.”

After less than a minute of tense silence the door of her bungalow opens and Armstrong steps out in the dark night, walking briskly down the dock, nearly breaking into a run. I’d like to follow after him and kick his ass for her, but I stay where I am, aware I’d only be doing more damage.

I’m not sure what to expect from Amie at this point. Not that I expect anything from her after that bullshit, but I wait until he’s long gone before I fire off a message.

You okay?

It feels like forever before she responds.

I don’t know. Did you hear any or all of that?

It’s an honest answer. And it doesn’t make it any easier to decide how to proceed. I give her another minute before sending a message:

I did. I wanted to make sure you were safe. I’ll understand if you want space right now.

The dots appear and then disappear three times before a message finally comes through:

I probably should.

That’s not a yes. It’s not a no either. It’s conflict. Understandable, reasonable conflict. I wait for more, some kind of confirmation that she wants me to stay away after what just went down with Armstrong.

After several long minutes I hear nothing and assume her silence means I’m staying put. Except a timid, barely there knock has me out of the chair and across the room. As much as I know she’s probably coming here for comfort, not sex, my body doesn’t seem to recognize that. Maybe she needs a shoulder to cry on. I can be that. I can be a friend if she needs one tonight.

Amie doesn’t say anything as she steps inside. Pain makes her eyes shiny, the emotional kind, the embarrassed kind.

“I feel guilty for wanting this, for wanting you.” She runs her fingers across my jaw and rests her palm on my chest. “But not enough to stay away. What does that say about me? What kind of person does that make me?”

“It makes you human, Amie. Armstrong is a self-serving bastard. He’s good at manipulating.”

She drops her hand and remains silent, maybe absorbing the truth. We haven’t talked about her relationship with Armstrong apart from vague, snide comments. I don’t want to remind her why this is a bad idea, which is what his showing up has done.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I worry—selfishly—that his brief appearance will ruin this. I don’t want to lose any of my time with her because Armstrong’s idiocy has gotten in the way again.

She shakes her head, glassy eyes shimmering. Her fingertips flutter to her throat, then drop to touch the back of my hand.

“What can I do for you?”

Her tongue drags across her bottom lip. White teeth press into plush, wet flesh. Her gaze darts down and then back up, uncertainty mixing with need. How someone can look so innocent and be so incredibly sexy is a mystery I’m glad I get to discover. She wraps her fingers around my wrist and brings my hand up, curving my palm around her delicate neck. “Tell me you want to fuck me,” she whispers.

I sweep my thumb along her throat. “Amie.”

Her eyes flutter shut. “Tell me. Please.”

The truth is, this little slice of pretend we’re living in is quickly becoming real for me. But I can’t tell her that. She’s in no place mentally or emotionally for anything more than physical gratification, and putting that on her will destroy her. She’s so fragile already. So I give her the thing she needs from me, an escape from the dark place she’s going in that beautiful head of hers.

I brush my lips gently over hers. “I want you.”

Her breath leaves her on a tiny gasp when I press my fingertips into her jaw and tilt her head back.

I take a step closer, forcing her back against the door. “You know what I’m going to do?”

She makes a wanton, desperate sound. I feel it, all the way to my bones. I know all I am is a distraction from reality, but I still want her, even if I shouldn’t.

I press my hips into hers so she can feel how hard I am for her. “I’m going to fuck you.” I bite her chin and kiss my way to her lips. “And you’re going to love it.”

* * *

“Tell me you’re not hooking up with her.” Bancroft sounds pissed.

Of all the things I shouldn’t be doing, sleeping with Amalie is at the top of a very long list. As is taking her out for dinner, buying her clothes, flowers, spending nights staring at the stars, taking her to sister resorts and comparing spa services, introducing her to the managerial staff, and spending the night in her bed. Or mine. Also, fucking her up against my door after Armstrong shat all over their relationship, and then again in my bed, and again in the morning is also not the best in terms of planning. Especially considering how I’m enjoying the sleeping part as much as I am the fucking. But I have no desire to stop and neither does she, so I’m going to continue to take advantage of this arrangement until I can’t anymore.

“Isn’t that what college kids do?” I suppose it applies to this situation regardless.