Page 70 of With a Cherry On Top

I watch him, lips parted, not a clue what to say. After a long moment, he slips away down the hall without another word.

And just like that, the door I thought had cracked open slams shut again.

“Please, Daddy, one more time.”

Throwing a glance at the pink clock on Sadie’s nightstand, I snap the book closed. I’ll shoot myself in the right temple if I have to readRapunzela third time, but that’s beside the point. “No, baby. It’s late. Try to sleep, okay?”

“But I don’t want to sleep.”

I stand and set the book on the small bookshelf. “But if you sleep, it’ll be tomorrow in a second. You’ll see.”

She fits her head against the pillow. “Okay. Good night, Daddy.”

“Good night, love.”

I leave a sliver of the door open and walk downstairs. The kitchen is still a mess from dinner, and all it takes is one look at the pile of plates to make me feel exhausted. At least, Sadie seems to be doing better. I’m sure the counselor at school is helping, but Josie calling regularly has been a real game changer. Sadie looks forward to it every day.

I slump on the couch, then take out my phone, the slightly paler skin around my ring finger catching my attention. I’ve kept my wedding band in one of the kitchen drawers since Charlotte sucked it off my finger four days ago.

Suckedit off.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to relive that moment for the millionth time. I’m pretty sure I owe her royalties for the amount of time I’ve spent thinking about it.

Fuck me, I miss her. I saw her twenty-four hours ago. I don’t evenknowher, not really, or have had enough time to get used to her presence, and still I miss her.

I’m obsessed, and I don’t know how to snap out of it.

I unlock my phone and open the browser. My fingers hesitate over the keys, a final moment of restraint, but it shatters the second I typeTOPinto the search bar.

I’m not going to actually contact her. I just want to see if she’s online, check her profile—nothing more.

Just one look.

Just a taste to put all my buzzing worries to sleep. To make sure she’s okay, that there were no hiccups with her show, that she’s doing well at home alone. Then I’ll go to sleep.

Once the page loads I see she’s uploaded a new picture, and the small preview alone has me sucking in a deep breath, my grip tightening around the phone.

Fuuuuuck.

She’s draped over satin black sheets, her body barely covered by a loose robe that’s parted just enough to reveal a strip of bare skin leading down her stomach. The lighting is low, warm, her lips slightly open. Her hair tumbles over one shoulder, framing her face in a way that makes her eyes seem sultrier. There’s a glossy sheen to her lower lip like she’s just licked it, and the thought of her doing exactly that, thinking of me, sends heat coursing through my body.

I swallow hard and swipe to the next image, then the next, hating myself with every move. Hating every man on this site who does the exact same thing. Hating that I miss her presence more with each shot, that she’s here but not really here. She’s pixels on a screen, a performance, a fantasy that isn’t mine to claim.

Then a ping makes my stomach lurch.

I freeze. Did I accidentally click something on her profile? My heart kicks into a sprint as I scan the screen, but the notification isn’t from an accidental like or a misplaced tip.

It’s a message.

My pulse pounds in my ears. Could it be her? Could another creator have messaged me, even though I haven’t interacted with anyone else on here?

I tap the message icon, my breath knocking from my lungs when I see the name.

Cherry.

Cherry texted me.

I rush to open it, my fingers unsteady as I read.

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