Glancing at myself in the full-body mirror that hangs from the back of the bathroom door, for the first time all week, I repeat the words I always say:
“I am beautiful.”
“I am worthy and deserving of love.”
“I am strong.”
“I am confident.”
“I am desired.”
“I am perfect and complete just the way I am.”
The last one sits on my tongue like toxic sludge. It’s the hardest to get out, but I manage. With one last glance at myself, I shove my phone into my pocket and head toward the front door. The house is quiet as I leave. Camden is upstairs working, and Elias is gone, probably also working. We all keep unconventional jobs, and we have for years. Camden creates content for OnlyFans and Elias is a cam boy by day, dancer by night. We don’t exactly have the most normal office hours, but the pay can’t be beat.
The sun is starting to set on the horizon as I jump onto the interstate. Burnt orange and cotton-candy pink splash the sky while I crank the music, getting lost in the melody. I was right—traffic is almost non-existent right now, giving me a few minutes to spare when I arrive at the hotel. This isn’t one I’ve been to before, for work or otherwise, but it’s fancy.
Climbing out, I lock the car behind me before stuffing the keys into my pocket. The lobby is empty as I meander across the plush maroon carpet. Tucked away into the far-right corner of the room is a dimly lit lounge area. The hostess grins at me as I step up to her stand.
“Good evening. Table for one?” Her southern accent is thick, sounding almost native to Alabama or Tennessee.
Clearing my throat, I stuff my hands into my pockets. “No, ma’am. I’m meeting someone—a gentleman—he may already be here. Do you mind if I go in and take a look around?”
“Absolutely!” She smiles as I walk past her.
Just as I think I should’ve asked Giselle what he looks like, I spot him. Don’t ask me how I know it’s him. I just do. His back is to me… well, sort of. I can see part of his side profile, and I stop in my tracks for a moment to admire him. From what I can tell, he’sgorgeous. The olive-green suit jacket he’s wearing stretches over his broad shoulders. It’s blatantly obvious that he’s buff as fuck underneath those clothes.
He’s got dark hair that’s buzzed short on the sides and longer on top. Under the candlelit glow of the restaurant, it looks black, but it’s entirely possible that it’s just a rich, dark brown. He has a matching beard; thick, full, and about an inch or two long. If it weren’t for the suit he’s got on, he’d look like a lumberjack. I can’t make out any other distinguishable features from where I’m standing and the angle he’s sitting at, but he’s attractive. Immensely so.
Squaring my shoulders, I saunter over to the table, rounding it and stopping in front of the chair across from him. “You must be Jules,” I purr. But as soon as his dark gaze lifts to meet mine, my stomach lurches into my throat, the room seeming to spin around me.
“Mr. van der Meer?” The words tumble out of my mouth at the same time his gruff voice reaches my ears. “Bodhi?”
The shock and horror plastered on his perfectly angled face matches mine, I’m sure. I’ve been doing this for going on three years, and this hasneverhappened. Not even once. My mouth falls open while I try to think of something—anything—to say to explain this situation, but nothing comes out. Not a single fucking thought comes to mind.
He drags his gaze around the room briefly before locking with mine once more. He doesn’t appear to be flailing the same way I am—any emotion present on his features a second ago now gone. “Sit.” The single word comes out deep, authoritative, yet quiet, so only I can hear him. Goosebumps pop up all over my flesh as his tone wraps around me, paralyzing me. The blood roaring in my ears is deafening. I gotta get out of here. I gotta get in my car and go home. Giselle will understand. Surely, she will when I explain the situation.
As soon as my hand leaves the seat and my body starts to turn, he speaks again. Only lower this time.Dangerouslylow. “I saidsit, Bodhi.”
Swallowing around the lump of cement in my throat, I pull out the chair and sit down, all without saying anything. His large hands are clasped together on the table, the ring on his left hand unmistakable. Lorelei van der Meer, from what I remember, is a naturally beautiful woman. Her pale blonde hair was always such a contrast to her husband’s chocolate brown. Their son—my old best friend—took after his mom with his light hair that darkened only a smidge as he got older, and his pale eyes that nearly matched my own icy blues.
“What are you doing here?” he finally asks after several moments of suffocating silence.
Scoffing, I reply, “Um, I could ask you the same thing,Jules.”
His face remains a blank canvas as he watches me. Unaffected and unphased. “So, youareJamie, then?”
Shit.I just outed myself. Should’ve kept my fucking mouth shut. I justhadto call him Jules, didn’t I? I’ve only ever known him as Julian van der Meer, Supreme Court judge and the father of my childhood best friend, Ryan. Never once have I heard him referred to as Jules… and he knows this.
Instead of confirming what he already knows, I grab the glass of ice water in front of me with a shaky hand, bringing it up to my mouth to take a sip.
I met Ryan when I was in the sixth grade. He and his family moved to the area halfway through the school year, and we instantly became friends. The new kid and the fat kid. He was bigger, stronger than me, even at a young age. He loved football, and he was built for it, too. When he came into my life, the bullying stopped. The name calling, the pushing and shoving, the spoiled food left in my locker or on my desk, it all stopped.
His house quickly became the safe haven for me that my own never was. On nights when my brother or my dad—or both—were especially relentless, I’d sneak away to his house. He lived one street over and climbing out my window and through some neighbors’ yards became a habit of mine. His dad worked a lot. He frequently stayed late at the office or was away on business trips, so I didn’t spend as much time with him as I did with Ryan and his mom, but I did know him.
Julian—or Jules—has always been hot, butfuck me, it’s got nothing on how attractive he is now. Where he was lean and clean-shaven back then, now he’s muscular and fuzzy in all the right places. Where he was baseball caps and athletic pants before, he’s now perfectly styled hair and tailor-made suits, if my assumption is correct about the way that fabric fits him just so. He aged like fine wine.
A server in a black vest and white long-sleeve blouse steps up to the table, pen and pad of paper in hand. “Good evening, folks. My name is Rachel. Can I get you two started with something to drink?”
