Page 72 of The Pucking Date
All that heat between us. The way he looked at me. Like I was more than a moment.
And then…this.
I watched it three times before I shut my phone off. The easy way he touched her shoulder, leaned in close, every move saying she was the only person on the planet.
And the worst part? I don’t even have the right to be mad.
I’m the one who left and ghosted him at the start of the summer. It was one night. One incredible, earth-shattering night.
He’s Finn O’Reilly. A man like that doesn’t sit around waiting for a woman who ran halfway across the world without leaving so much as a forwarding address.
God, I’m being ridiculous. It’s hormones. But it doesn’t stop the sting.
I sit on the edge of the tub, stomach swirling again, but it’s not the baby this time. It’s something heavier. Something that feels a lot like heartbreak. Too familiar. Too recent. The same hollow twist I felt when Prince Charming chose someone more suitable.
I pull out my phone and hit the call button.
Call: Sophie
She answers on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up? You alive out there in sponsor-land?”
“I slept with Finn again,” I blurt out.
Silence. Then, “Shit. When?”
“Last night. And Sophie...someone posted a video onTikTok. Him with another woman. Walking out of a hotel bar, laughing, his arm around her.” The words crack as they leave me. “It looked intimate.”
“Jess—”
“I know what you’re going to say. I ghosted him for months. I have no right to be jealous.”
“Actually,” Sophie says quietly, “I was going to tell you that Finn was asking about you all summer. Kept asking Liam if you were okay, where you were. Liam said he looked wrecked.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“You left him on read the whole time you were in Shanghai. And now you’re acting like he’s the one who let you down.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “I have to go. Chad’s waiting.”
“Jess—”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Two hours later,I’m in the hotel elevator, armor fully restored. Chad suggested dinner instead of a proper meeting, and I should have shut it down immediately. But I need those contract details. I need to know exactly what Finn’s walking into.
I clock the wine before I even reach the table.
Two glasses. Red. Already poured.
I stride across the restaurant’s polished floor, heels clicking with every step. My navy suit is tailored sharp. No dress tonight, no softness, no slip. Power blazer, white blouse, everything calculated to scream one thing: this is business.
But the second I spot Chad leaning back in his chair with that airbrushed familiarity, I know I’ve walked into a trap.
“Jessica,” he says smoothly, rising just enough to pretend we’re still something. He tilts in to brush the air beside my cheek; I step past him and into my chair without breaking stride.
“Chad,” I reply, placing my tablet between us, a clean divide. “You said you had updates on the Summit Sportswear profiles.”
He nods toward the wine, presenting it as a peace offering when it’s clearly a power move. “Take a breath. It’s dinner. I even picked your favorite, Tempranillo.”
