Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2)

Presley

From the window next to this café table, the sky looks heavy with unfallen rain.

I pick at the torn edge of the menu as I wait for Michael to show up. He texted me that he’ll be a few minutes late, so I probably should have taken my time coming here. I could have taken the scenic route from Bianca’s apartment by the pond . . . no. I would just see the ducks and think about the girls. And him. And I desperately don’t want to think about him.

I don’t want to think about how Dominic’s eyes light up when he looks at me, or his laugh when his girls do something silly, or the way he squeezes me tight against his chest when we’re tangled in his bed. I especially don’t want to think about my last memory of him: the cold silhouette of his back against the TV newscast that froze out any chance of our relationship amounting to something.

Did you really think that would happen? I scoff loud enough that a barista at the counter turns to look at me with an odd expression.

I dip my head down, pretending to clear my throat. So much for making this café my usual haunt. I’m practically one step away from talking to myself.

As I sip my coffee, it occurs to me that this is the very same café where I first met Austin. It was when Michael had asked me for more money and we sat across the room in the armchairs. I can even see the case where they keep the banana bread where we struck up our first conversation.

As for Austin . . . what a colossal disaster that turned out to be. My heart aches at the memory of Dominic’s face when he found the Genesis folder in my bag. It was so hurtful that he thought so little of me, that he thought I would betray him and risk everything to help a presumptuous stranger.

But he did hear you out. He did forgive you.

to him. He tossed money at me like I was a whore. And then

behavior. I

my breath and tuck it under the little succulent centerpiece, hoping no one noticed.

to be that person. The man walking his tiny round dog. The woman on her morning jog. The

I could trade in my homophobic father. Instead, I have a roller

of these thoughts rattle in my brain, a tall iced coffee lands before me, followed by a handsome

chair. His hair is a

I reach over the table and pat the stray tufts

Michael admits, looking up at me through his lashes as I attempt to finger-comb his bangs out of

sex hair?” I grimace dramatically, wiping my hand

with a cheeky grin. I’m

that promotion

my hair up in a messy bun, like it always

my eighty-grand-a-year

eyes go wide.