Chapter 17

"Come in," Winslow invites me in.

Gray sweatpants and shirtless. Hell yeah. I've had a long day, and Winslow's appearance takes my mind off it. My hands sweep over the ridges of his abs and up to his chest. "I had a little boy scream the entire four hours. He fell and hit his head, cutting his eyebrow on his parents' mini-Yeti."

"I'm sorry." He puckers and presses his lips to mine in a very boyfriend type gesture. "I was getting ready to work out for thirty minutes. My house is yours. Or you can work out with me, and then we can shower." He wiggles his eyebrows in quick succession.

I set my overnight bag on the couch. "Sounds good. How did your last date go?"

"God, I hate calling them dates. Margie is old, and the hacker is a baby."

"How old?"

"Twenty-two. But I hired her." He explains everything that happened to her. "She's going to be extremely valuable to our company."

Our? I think he means his unless he's talking about his family.

The treadmill faces the same direction as the living room windows only one story above. It's a view I could get used to. Plus, I can see Winslow's reflection in the glass. Watching him work out is my new favorite activity. The way his chest and abs tighten as he does sit ups. The way his veins pop when he does bicep curls.

And did I mention he's shirtless? Yes, I did.

The shower proves to be even more exciting. We wash each other slow and seductive. He lifts me, wrapping my legs around his waist as he nudges against my center before playing me like a cello—long strokes in and out, building my orgasm and leaving me begging him. "Please."

"You'll come when I want you to come."

"Oh Lord, please." I slip my hand between us in an attempt to get the friction I need, but he kisses my hand and throws it back around his neck.

He finally lets me sink all the way down, and I moan. "I love…"

We both stall. Our bodies go rigid for a second. He kisses my words away. The rest of the time is slow and sensual like we're making love.

Do I love him? Was I going to say I love you?

Or I love this. And does he feel the same way?

He has Enzo's delivered and opens a bottle of wine. We take the elevator to the third floor of his penthouse to the terrace. It's a little cooler up here, the light breeze chasing the humidity away. Conversation flows, and there's no mention of me almost saying something I'm not sure I meant. I might, but it's hard to believe I'm anything more than a rebound to Phoebe.

Winslow sits quietly, then finishes his first glass of wine rather fast, and I cock a brow. "Anything wrong?"

"Let's go sit on the couch."

It's gotten chilly as nighttime falls; the pinks and purples fade into the horizon. We move over to the heavy teak furniture with fluffy cushions. He grabs a blanket from the braided tote before he brings my legs over his, caressing my calf with his thumb. There's a hesitancy to his touch that scares me.

"What is it?"

"I need to tell you something."

My heart races at those words. He's going to tell me he loves me.

"I don't know how to say this."

Fuck, is he breaking it off with me?

He inhales deep and, on a shaky breath, says, "It's my fault Phoebe died."

My heart keeps pounding for a different reason.

My hand covers his. "No."

"We were at a gala, and she was wearing the red dress. It shimmered like the red grouper on the boat. We had been together since college—when I was rich but not filthy rich. She preferred reading, online shopping, or being with our families. Definitely an introvert until you got to know her. Phoebe wasn't comfortable in the world of galas and fundraisers."

"It seems normal not to like being paraded around like arm candy."

His expression darkens. "That evening, she wanted to leave early, and I…" He trails off, letting out a heavy sigh. "I had to stay. We ended up in a disagreement, and she stormed off." His head drops back, looking at the stars. "It was my fucking fault she was crying. Barclay called, and I rushed after her, and I don't know if I can ever forgive myself."

I'd found an article that said Phoebe was hit by a car, but it seemed like an accident and didn't give details. I'd hoped he would confide in me, and here we are.

I draw closer to him. "It's not your fault that she was struck by a car."

"How can you believe that? She was mine to take care of, whether we were married or not. Cam, you don't know the whole story. I found her running down the sidewalk, and I grabbed her arm. She jerked away from me and said, ‘You know I hate these things, yet you make me come. And you leave me alone half of the time. You call this love? It isn't.'"

Tears blur his blue eyes.

"She runs across the street, and I yell, ‘Stop.' And she does, and the car slams into her. It happened because of me. If I wouldn't have called after her and told her to stop, she would be alive right now."

"One, it wasn't your fault. It was a freak accident. And two, have you spoken with a therapist? Winslow, not many people know what happened to me. It drives me, but it doesn't define me. Today, when that little boy fell and hit his head, images of my grandfather dying in front of me flashed before my eyes. I begged Paps to take me out on the water that day, but as much as I like to blame myself, it wasn't my fault. And you can't blame yourself either."

Silence ensues, so I break it by moving my center over him and threading my hands through his hair and staring into his eyes lit by the moonlight.

"You're an amazing man with flaws. You've met five women, four have had tragedy in their lives. The ones you admire are the ones who chose to live. It's what you do after the trauma that defines you. Would a Worthington crawl in a hole? Hell no. You've remained tight with your family."

He rewards me with a quick grin. "Promise me if you ever get upset with me, you won't storm off angry. We will talk, or you will let Barclay drive you home."

"I promise."

Kiss. "Good." I part my lips this time as ours overlap again. "I'm not sure you realize how much light you've brought back to my life."

"The same goes for me. I haven't made time for friends or relationships. I've concentrated on building my business in honor of my grandfather. To prove that I love him. On the water, I feel his love and wisdom, always guiding me home. But…"

"Now, you have me." He pushes my hair over my shoulder.

Do I have him? Is this his way of asking me to be his girlfriend? I inhale and ask, "Do I?"

"I want you to come to dinner at my parents' house next weekend."

"I'd love to."

Tenderly, I kiss him, wanting to ease his pain and hoping our relationship is enough to heal him, like he's healed me. Neither of us attempts anything more than kissing. We can be together without ripping off each other's clothes, which makes me smile.

He tucks me under his arm with my head on his shoulder. "Winslow, I've been dying to watch the documentary on the Rocky Mountain serial killer."

"You like true crime?"

"Do I? I'm a true crime junkie."

"Let's get in bed and turn it on. If you get scared, I can think of a few things to do."

He stands, still holding me, and swings me around and over his shoulder. "Winslow, let me down."

"Never."