Before You

But now, looking back on it, there was nothing I could have done to prevent it.

I was defenseless when it came to her.

Only her.

The guilt wasn’t going to leave, no matter what. It would live in my chest for the rest of my life, causing the same amount of pain if I was with her a second time.

And a third.

So, I saw no reason to stop … yet.

Me: Dinner this weekend?

I set the phone back on my desk and turned my attention to my computer, clearing out my inbox from the emails that had come in while I was gone. I didn’t get through more than a few when a text came across my screen.

Billie: I suppose it’s your pick, huh?

Me: Did you have something in mind?

Billie: I’d really love to try your cooking.

Me: Lol.

Billie: Oh, you think I’m joking?

I smiled as I looked at the screen.

She’d made a fair request. I’d been to her place after all, so I wasn’t surprised she wanted to see mine. As for the cooking, she knew I didn’t have the palate of a novice, and she wanted to test my skills.

I had to give the girl credit.

But the difference between her invitation and one that would come from me was that Billie and I didn’t have the same struggles. She didn’t have the weight of our future dangling in her face like a goddamn carrot or the knowledge of what had really brought us together.

Some things in life were a coincidence.

My encounter with Billie Paige was not.

Me: Challenge accepted. How about tomorrow night?

Billie: Can I bring anything?

Me: Just you.

Me: Unless … you want to fly to Martha’s Vineyard tonight?

Me: Say yes.

Billie: I can’t.

Me: I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow.

I was sure she was staring at the phone, thinking of me as the guy who had saved her, disappointed with herself because she kept turning me down.

Billie didn’t realize something …

I was going to hurt her far worse than Flight 88.

FIFTY

BILLIE

I’D WALKED past Jared’s building in Tribeca so many times in the past, never giving it a second glance, never considering a hero and the man I was falling for lived in there. But tonight, I went to the front entrance and gave the security guard my name. He held a tablet that I pressed my hand onto while it read my prints, and then he scanned my license before he brought me into a short hallway where there was an elevator. I would have asked him which button I needed to push, but there was only one, and it was already lit.

The door closed before he said a word, and the elevator began to rise.

I barely had time to catch my breath when it opened. I didn’t move as I took in my surroundings, realizing I wasn’t in a hallway, but an entryway to a home.

Jared’s home, I assumed.

Gripping my favorite bottle of wine and a box of dessert, I walked into the foyer and gave a loud, “Hello?”

“I’m in the kitchen,” Jared called back, slightly muffled.

There was rock ’n’ roll playing through hidden speakers, and soft lighting and masculine artwork adorned the walls; together, they set an unforgettable tone. From the entryway, I turned a short corner and was dumped into the mouth of the most impressive condo I had ever been in. His ceiling was twice the height of mine, and the rooms were open and airy with a back wall that was made of nothing but glass. What filled the massive space were the most gorgeous furnishings done in black and silver.

It wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned.

It was better.

“You have to be kidding me,” I said as I walked farther in, stopping halfway between the kitchen and windows. “This view”—I took a breath—“is … wow.” It was an overwhelming, unobstructed angle of lower Manhattan. “I can’t believe you get to wake up to this every day.”

My eyes shifted, and in the reflection of the glass, I could see him behind me in the kitchen. My gaze moved again, and SoHo was directly in front of me.

Even though the situation was different, it reminded me of what I had done on the plane the first time I saw Jared.

The thought was jarring.

“Good evening, Billie.”

I tried to fill my lungs, and I turned around. He was at least fifteen feet behind me, standing at the range with a wooden spoon in his hand, his stare on me while he stirred.