Page 65 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
Sunlight filters through the windows, casting shadows across a space that feels far from hollow. I walk slowly, tracing the length of the new foundation space like it’s something sacred. My boots click softly on the concrete, the sound quickly swallowed by the vastness around me. I’m alone, but not entirely. Not here. Here, I feel… rooted.
I run my hand along the exposed brick wall, imagining what it will look like once it’s painted, once the gallery lighting is installed, once this place is full of life and art and people who believe in something bigger than themselves. Jack and I are still finalizing permits and architect plans, but it already feels like ours.
The echo of footsteps behind me doesn’t startle me, I already know they’re his. “I thought you had meetings,” I say without turning around. “I moved them,” Jack answers simply.
Of course he did. The man has learned how to shift mountains when he wants something. I half expect him to wrap his arms around me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he walks beside me in silence, both of us staring forward like we can already see the future here.
“What are you thinking?” he asks. “That I’ve never built something like this before. Not just the space. The whole thing. The intention behind it.”
He nods, quiet for a beat. “That’s the point. It’s new. It’s supposed to feel unfamiliar.”
I glance up at him. “Are you ever afraid we’ll mess it up?” Jack’s lips curve slightly. “All the time.”
That surprises me more than it should. “You don’t show it.”
“I don’t have the luxury of fear,” he says. “But I feel it. I just trust you more than I trust the noise around us.”
I blink at him. The tension in my chest softens a little. “That’s a good answer.” “I’ve been working on those.”
I laugh, and the sound bounces off the walls. Jack smiles, but it’s the quieter kind, the one he saves for me when no one else is around.
We spend the next hour walking the space, debating flooring samples and arguing over whether we need a skylight above the conference loft. I want one. Jack’s skeptical. Somehow, even that feels intimate. Like we’re learning how to compromise, how to plan, how to be a team.
At one point, he crouches to inspect a patch of concrete, muttering something about sealing issues, and I catch myself watching him. Not just as a partner, but as a man I’ve let in far deeper than I ever planned. There’s a steadiness in him when we work together, something I trust more than I should. Something that scares me more than I’ll admit.
***
Back at the building, Jack insists on walking me up to my brother’s apartment, even though his penthouse is on the same floor. His hand grazes mine in the hallway, and I almost reach for it, but I don’t. Not with the tension in his jaw. Not with the way his eyes have been drifting to his phone all day like he’s waiting for something.
As we reach my door, he opens his mouth like he might say something more, then thinks better of it. The moment passes. “You coming in?” I ask, keeping my tone light. Jack hesitates. “I have a call to take. Shouldn’t be long.”
I nod. “Okay.” His eyes linger on mine. “Later?” “Later.”
The door clicks shut behind me, and I exhale into the stillness. But the feeling follows. Something feels... off.
I toss my keys on the counter, shed my coat, and head for the shower. I try to wash the unease off my skin, but it clings. Afterward, I dress down in an old tee and leggings and settle onto my brother’s couch with a sketchpad and a glass of wine. Jack’s name is still saved under “Don’t” on my phone from the months I spent trying to convince myself I shouldn’t love him. I stare at it for a moment before locking the screen again.
A ping pulls me out of my thoughts. A text from Sienna. Just saw Jack on 57th. He was with some woman in a red coat. Gorgeous. Definitely not business.
My chest tightens, slow and deliberate. I stare at the screen, reading the words again, as if the meaning might shift the second time.
I type out a reply:Are you sure it was him?
Her response comes immediately:Pretty sure. They hugged. She handed him a folder or something. Seemed… cozy.
I sit perfectly still, the wine glass in one hand and my phone gripped like a lifeline I no longer trust. The air in the room changes. Closes in.
Jack told me he had a call to take. He did not mention a meeting. He did not mention a woman in a red coat. And he certainly did not mention anything that could be described as “cozy.”
Then, a third message:You okay?
I stare at the blinking cursor on the screen and realize I have no idea how to respond. I’m not okay. I just don’t know exactly why yet. But I’m about to find out.
I grab my coat, still barefoot, and slide into the first pair of boots I find near the door. My keys rattle into my coat pocket as I step into the hall. I don’t look toward Jack’s door as I pass it. I keep walking, past the elevator, down the stairwell, and out onto the street.
At first, I turn left out of habit, heading toward the corner deli. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as I step inside, the door chiming in greeting. I don’t buy anything. I just stand there for a moment, surrounded by smells of burnt coffee and cheap paper towels, before turning around and walking back out. My feet take over after that.
I pass the florist Jack once dragged me to on a rainy Tuesday, the one that sells overpriced peonies and always smells like eucalyptus. I walk past the wine shop with the crooked sign, past a couple laughing too loud, past a busker playing something soft and sad on a cello. The sky shifts above me, deepening into slate.
