His eyes rake over me, filled with loathing. With disgust. “Forget looking at yourself in the mirror—I just want to know, how do you live in your skin?”

The words hang heavy in the quiet of the room, until Tom shakes his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter and you’re not worth my time.”

And he marches out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

I run my hand over the back of my neck. Then I stand and pack files into my briefcase. “I’m heading out,” I tell Stanton.

“You want to come over tonight? Have dinner with me and Sofia?”

“Not tonight, man. The faster I get to sleep, the faster this fucking day will end.”

• • •

But I don’t go home. Instead I drive over to a small hole-in-the-wall kind of place—a real dive bar—with grouchy staff, almost nonexistent clientele, and fantastic scotch. Instead of having to deal with friendly, tip-hungry bartenders and female patrons looking to hook up, here I know they’ll leave me the fuck alone. Which is exactly what I need at the moment.

I sit on the threadbare stool as a muscular bartender with a thick, black goatee pours me a double scotch—neat. I toss several bills onto the rotting wood bar, more than needed.

“Just leave the whole fucking bottle.”

20

Hours later, I find myself stumbling onto Chelsea’s stoop, without any clear recollection of how I got there. I glance back at my car—parked crookedly.

And on the lawn.

Glad that valet gig didn’t work out—I obviously suck at it.

The lights inside the house are out, and all is silent at the McQuaid compound. It registers that it’s probably too late to show up here, and it’s damn straight too late to knock on the door.

Then I remember the spare key. ’Cause I’m a fucking genius.

I lift the mat and see the silver, sparkling little piece of metal. I unlock the door and tiptoe in—as much as my two-hundred-twenty-five-pound frame allows, anyway. The fur ball approaches, tiny nails clicking on the hardwood floor, smelling my feet.

“Hey, Shaggy. Where’s Scooby?” I laugh—even though that wasn’t really funny.

I walk into the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. Midchug, Chelsea jumps through the kitchen door, a baseball bat in her hands, raised and ready.

The panicked look on her face fades when she sees me, shifting to annoyance. But at least she lowers the bat. “Jake? You scared the hell out of me!”

I swallow a gulp of water and slur, “How many times have I told you to move that goddamn key? It’s the first place burglars will check. I mean—sheesh—look at me. I got in and now you’re stuck with me.”

Her head tilts and her brow puckers. It’s adorable. I want to kiss the pucker. And her whole face. I want to lick her, lather her, rub myself all over her until she smells like me. So anyone who’s near her knows she belongs to someone.

Is that as gross as it sounds?

“Are you drunk?” she whispers.

Does she really need to ask? I used the word sheesh—of course I’m fucking drunk.

“Oh yeah, off-the-ass drunk, I am.”

Thanks, Yoda.

“Are you . . . is everything okay?”

“It was a rough day at the office, honey. I deserved a shitfacing.”

“What happened?”

I avoid her question and say softly, “I had to see you. You just make everything . . . better.”

She stares at me for a few seconds. Then she props the bat in the corner. Her hand reaches for me. “You have to be quiet, okay? Don’t wake the kids.”

That would be terrible. I lock my lips with an imaginary key.

But as she starts to lead the way, I yank her hand—turning her around, making her crash against me. Because there’s something I have to tell her.

“Chelsea . . . I didn’t mean what I said. I am on your side.”

She searches my face, smiling gently. Her hand runs through my dark hair. “I know you are.”

We make it to Chelsea’s room undetected. She closes the door while I sit on the bed, yanking at my tie. Chelsea comes to my rescue and lifts it over my head. Then she goes to work on my shirt, my pants—stripping me down to boxers and my T-shirt.

I watch her through hooded eyes, relishing the admonishing smile dancing on her face, the way she moves with effortless grace.

“You’re so beautiful,” I tell her, because I can’t keep the words in a second longer.

She looks up at me from the floor, throwing my socks over her shoulder. “You’re not so bad yourself.” She cocks her chin toward the middle of the bed. “Go on. Scoot over.”

I do as I’m told and she climbs onto the bed behind me. I lie back against the pillow, one arm bent behind my head. Chelsea nestles up close, her cheek resting above my heart.

“What’s going on with you, Jake?”

Somewhere deep inside lies the truth. It’s curled up into a tight, black ball, under heavy blankets of disappointment. Fear. And shame. But it wants to show itself the way a wounded animal exposes its tender underbelly when it knows it’s beaten. Just to hasten whatever comes next.

“I’m not a good man.”

The whispered confession echoes in the still room. Chelsea lifts her head and I feel the point of her chin against my ribs. “You’re one of the best men I’ve ever known. In every way possible.” There’s disbelief in her voice—playfulness—like she thinks I’m teasing her.