When I return to my seat, I find that Tucker’s eyes are still glued to the screen of his computer. He nods when I approach and gets up to let me in without letting his fingers leave the keyboard. I sit down and lean my head against the window, suddenly exhausted.

“Is he ok?”

I turn to my husband, his expression impassive, his attention still tuned to his work. When I don’t answer right away, he simply lifts a brow and gives me a mere fraction of a glance. That’s it.

“Yeah.” It’s a lie. Ransom isn’t all right. I’m not all right. And we . . . we haven’t been all right for a long time.

He nods. “Good.” Then he acts as if we hadn’t spoken at all.

Ransom returns to his seat minutes later, his color less pale and his face more relaxed. That alone is almost enough to soothe me into sleep. And just as the first caress of slumber starts to pull me under, I feel warm, callused fingers brush against the back of my right hand. The hand by the window. The hand that Tucker can’t see.

I fall asleep that way—my husband at my side, completely oblivious, and my one-time lover running his fingertips over my knuckles. And it feels like we’re fucking. Only this time, Tucker isn’t watching.

Chapter Twenty

Arizona is fucking hot.

Not New York hot, which is pretty damn miserable in the summertime. But West-coast-so-goddamn-dry-I-can’t-breathe-blink-or-swallow hot. I hate it. But the heat doesn’t compare to the way my hand still kindles with Ransom’s touch. Or the way Tucker’s shrewd stare burns right through me, picking me apart, sifting out the secrets and leaving behind the shame to fester and rot. I hate that too.

The limo ride to Justice’s compound is uncomfortable to say the least. But we try to make the best of the long journey by completely tuning one another out. Tucker goes back to whatever the hell he’s typing up on his MacBook. Across from us on the bench seat, Ransom slips on his headphones and pulls a notebook out of his bag. I watch with rapt fascination as he taps his fingers against the blank, paper canvas, head nodding, eyes closed. To watch him create—to breathe life into oblivion and somehow compose greatness—is probably the most intimate experience I’ve had with him to date. And even though I must look like a moron staring at him like he’s some rare, exotic piece of art, I can’t force myself to look away. He’s beautiful in his element—unguarded, pure. It’s like I’m truly seeing him for the first time.

His eyes suddenly open, and lock on to mine. He frowns for half a second before the corner of his mouth twitches. He mouths the word, What?, and the unspoken question, coupled with the flash of his tongue, unleashes a swarm of silk-winged butterflies inside my ribcage. Reflexively, I look over to my husband, who, as I expect, is none the wiser. When I turn back to Ransom, I simply shake my head. He lifts a challenging brow, tempting me to tell him what’s on my mind. But then again, I don’t have to. He can see the way my skin is flushed like it’s just been burned by the stubble of his chin. And the way my chest rises and falls with every single ragged breath as if he’s squeezing my lungs with his bare hands. And he surely notices the way my gaze runs over him, trying to capture every detail and download them to the forbidden file folder inside my mind.

He can see all these things, because in some convoluted way, Ransom has gotten inside of more than just my body. He’s watermarked my heart, and now he can read me like I’m splashed across the front pages of The Post.

This stranger has made me feel for him. And I hate that most of all.

I break the spell by pretending to be engrossed in unread text messages and emails on my cellphone, avoiding eye contact with him for the rest of the trip. When we arrive at Oasis over an hour later, my whole body aches with tension and stiffness. Of course, I don’t even have a chance to get out and stretch before I spy Justice on the front steps, his maddeningly handsome face screwed in discontent.

Most women would be overjoyed to be in the presence of such male beauty. Tucker, Ransom, and Justice are all ridiculously gorgeous in very distinct, yet very obvious ways. Tucker is what one would consider classically handsome, with his strong jaw, bee stung lips, and ocean blue eyes. Ransom is the complete opposite, his olive complexion and dark, angular features more intriguing and exotic than my All-American husband’s. But Justice . . . Justice is what a woman would deem panty-dropping fine. The man is sex on a stick, covered in rich chocolate and rainbow sprinkles. His eyes are the color of a blue sky that’s been threatened by a storm and his lips are bowed, pouty even. They’d make him appear almost feminine if it weren’t for the fact that the man’s body is an in-depth course in sexual education, and every muscle and plane is a quiz you want to ace with flying colors.

At first glance, you’d think you were staring at a mirage. Then he opens his mouth, and the illusion shatters. It’s like he knows he is that gorgeous, that sexy, and he wants to repel you. Like his intent is to turn off as many people as he can in an attempt to keep them at arm’s length.

I scoped out his tactics within the first few moments of meeting him years ago. Cut from the same cloth, that guy and me. And after the top blew off his personal life last year, exposing his piece of shit “family” and the way they threw him out like garbage, I can understand why he chooses to live his life in exile.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles, coming down the terra cotta stairs of his massive estate. Exile or not, Justice is loaded. After his spineless father’s bitch of a wife sent Justice and his mom packing, he was left with a little chunk of change. He took the cash, put it toward an idea that would either get him stoned or celebrated and, alas, Justice Drake, sexpert extraordinaire, was born.

“Save the niceties and concern for someone who actually gives a damn,” I fire back, walking past him into the air-conditioned foyer. It’s not that the heat is unbearable, because it is. But mostly the fact that if I stand there between my husband and my—shit, I don’t even know what he is—Justice will see right through me. He’ll see the truth displayed on my body like a scarlet letter, inked with bloodred lies and lust. And I’m just not ready to face him yet. I could give two shits what people think about me as a person, especially my clients. But Justice is different. I actually like him, but even more than that, I respect the hell out of him. It’s kind of hard not to.

I hear the men behind me, exchanging introductions as they make their way into the house. And while my exterior is stoically cool and blasé, my gut rages like the mosh pit at a heavy metal concert. What was I thinking? Bringing Tucker and Ransom to Justice’s den of sin? Exposing them to what really goes on behind the closed door of most marriages? Am I just encouraging this thing between us? Did I subconsciously choose this place because I knew we’d be safe from ridicule, and encouraged to explore our fantasies further?

“Your rooms are this way. The staff will grab your bags,” Justice says, leading us to the grand staircase that leads to the second floor rooms. They were initially used as living quarters for the women enrolled in his program, but they now house couples that have joined Justice’s new relationship-enrichment course. I was instrumental in the changeover after he abandoned his business last fall. Being that exposed and vulnerable nearly crushed him. But losing Ally—watching her walk away from him and back into her husband’s arms—it almost killed him.

After months of trying to pick up the pieces of his war-torn life, and worrying about him until I was physically sick, I enlisted a little help. Like I told him, every businessperson worth their salt has a hacker on their payroll. So I emailed and emailed, to no avail, hoping to get just a breadcrumb of an IP address, anything that would lead us to him. He never answered, of course. It was like he knew what my intent was, and he didn’t want to be found. He was going to disappear, reinvent himself, and eventually die alone. I couldn’t let that happen.