Page 80 of Sin

She’s not the one who should be sorry.

“Me too,” I say.

Then I leave. The door closes behind me, and I stand in the hall for a moment, unable to move. Inside the room, Laurel is alone in the bed I left her in. Outside the room, I am a married man with his ring back on and her taste still in his mouth.

The day is punishment. Every second of it. The first meeting is with a distributor from Germany who wants exclusivity on Lust for several boutique stores. I answer questions. I discuss margins. I sign off on follow-up materials. All while Laurel sits two seats away in a cream blouse and wide-leg trousers, looking polished, composed, and entirely untouchable.

She doesn’t look at me unless she has to. When she does, her eyes are professional. Empty. That’s worse than anger.

At lunch, I watch her laugh at something one of the Dutch retailers says. It’s not her real laugh. I know that now, which feels like another thing I have stolen. Her real laugh is lower. Warmer. It breaks out of her like she tried to stop it and failed. I made her laugh like that last night. Then I made her apologize this morning.

By two, the guilt has settled under my ribs and stayed there.

By three, I’ve spun my wedding ring around my finger so many times the skin beneath it is irritated.

By four, Laurel gives the last live demo for Lust, and every person in the room is captivated. She’s brilliant. Confident. Precise without being cold. Warm without losing authority. She talks about pleasure like it matters. Like it is not shameful. Like bodies deserve patience and attention and care. I should be proud of her.

I am proud of her.

But I’m also remembering the way she looked beneath me with her head tipped back and my name breaking out of her mouth. I excuse myself before the session ends. In the restroom, I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection.

“You’re a bastard,” I say quietly.

My reflection doesn’t argue.

Because I’m in hell, my phone buzzes and Jenna’s name flashes across the screen. For a second, I can’t breathe.

Finally, I answer the call.

“Hey,” I say.

“Mason.” Her voice is distracted. There’s noise behind her. People talking. A door closing. “I forgot to ask. What time do you get back tomorrow?”

“Late.”

“I may still be in Kansas anyway. Mom wants me to stay through the weekend.”

“Okay.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“Conference going well?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Good. I have to run. Safe flight.”

“Jenna.”

She pauses. “Yeah?”

I don’t know what I planned to say. I’m sorry. I miss who we used to be. I ruined everything. I don’t know how to fix us.

Instead, I look down at the ring on my finger and say, “Nothing. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

The call ends and I stand there with the phone in my hand, feeling nothing I should and everything I shouldn’t.