CHAPTER 3

~ SIMON

The image of Jamie Collins with her face streaked with tears wouldn't leave my head. Not because I cared—God forbid. It was because I'd never seen that woman lose her composure.

Three years at Hart & Co., and she was a precision machine: flawless reports, arguments sharp enough to cut glass, that calm voice that made even the most senior partners sweat in their thousand-dollar suits. And there she was, falling apart over some neurosurgeon who'd been banging her own cousin.

Jesus Christ.

I dropped the bar and sat up, wiping my face with a towel.

The glass door slid open.

"Brother."

Stephen. Of course. He always showed up when I wanted solitude, always with gossip I never asked for.

"You're weak today." He grabbed a twenty-pound dumbbell. "Weak."

"I'm training, not gossiping." I dropped the weights to the floor. "What's the bullshit today?"

Stephen settled onto the bench next to me.

"People are asking if you're going to the class reunion. Everyone wants to see the billionaire."

"Not going." I grabbed the bar, starting my presses. "Class reunions aren't my thing, you know that."

"Come on, Simon. People want to see you."

"Tell them to check Forbes."

Stephen laughed, but I caught the glint in his eye. He was hiding something.

"You heard Abby split from her husband, right?"

My hands stalled. The bar hung in the air for a second—long enough for Stephen to notice. I racked it, sat up, my heart beating harder than any set could justify.

"What?"

"Here." He held out his phone. "Her I*******m's clean. No photos with the husband. None. All gone."

I took it. Scrolled. She was beautiful—she always had been. Dark hair, green eyes, that smile that made me believe in love when I was eighteen. But the wedding photos, the trips, the couple shots—all deleted.

I handed the phone back without a word.

"Knew you'd like that news." Stephen pocketed the phone, that shit-eating grin on his face. "Always knew you never got over that breakup."

"I got over it."

"Sure." He laughed. "But don't get your hopes up, brother. Already talked to her. Tested the waters."

My eyes narrowed.

"What did you say, you son of a bitch?"

"Relax, man." Stephen raised his hands. "Just said: 'Abby, since you're single now, you should give my buddy Simon a shot.' It was a compliment."

"And what did she say?"

Stephen hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. I knew that hesitation. It was the same pause executives made before delivering bad news.

"She said: 'Stephen, you're sweet, but Simon's an amazing man. I just don't think we're in the same place. I have three kids now, a whole life, routines, responsibilities. And from what I hear, Simon's still pretty attached to the bon vivant lifestyle.'"

Translation: she thought I was a player that no sensible woman would take seriously.

The silence hung heavy between us. My hands were clenched, knuckles white.

"Hm." I stood, tossing the towel over my shoulder. "Heading to the office."

"Simon, it was just her opinion—"

"I know what it was." I was already at the door. "Later."

I strode down the marble hallway, into the penthouse. The glass wall dominated the room, Manhattan sprawling at my feet like a concrete jungle.

I pulled out my phone. Opened I*******m. Typed her name.

Abigail Lancaster.

The photos were there. Her at a café. Her at a park. With the kids. No ring. My chest tightened in a way I hated.

She was still fucking beautiful.

"What did you expect?" I whispered, forehead against the cold glass. "That I'd turned into a saint all these years?"

Maybe Abby was right. I was a dick.

Then why did her opinion still bother me?

Because you're dying to be a stepdad, you idiot.

I laughed to myself, bitterly.

Me, Simon Hart, the guy who'd never slept with the same pair of legs two nights in a row... wanting to step up for a freshly divorced mother of three.

I looked at her photo again. The kids. The missing ring.

And there I was, mentally calculating how I was going to win over three little brats who'd probably hate me on sight.

"Pathetic," I muttered.

But I didn't turn off my phone, which immediately started buzzing.

The name on the screen raised an eyebrow.

Jamie Collins.

I answered, putting it to my ear.

"Counselor." My voice came out rasps than I intended. "What happened? Did the building catch fire?"

"Almost." Her tone was professional, but I caught the exhaustion underneath. "Cavellier's legal team sent a last-minute amendment. They want to renegotiate the indemnity clause. Need your authorization to respond before nine, or we lose the twenty-four-hour window."

"Send it over email." I rubbed my face. "What time is it?"

"Eight PM, Simon. Are you in the middle of a date?"

"No." I laughed softly. "Just working out. But tell me something, Jamie." I glanced at my watch. "Are you still at the office?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because I'm worried. Don't want my favorite lawyer burning out."

She let out a dry laugh.

"Keeping my head busy has been doing me good lately."

I grabbed a water bottle, took a sip.

"And the decision? Going to your grandmother's birthday?"

She took a deep breath.

"I don't know. Haven't decided yet."

I set the bottle down, an idea forming.

No fucking way.

Jamie was my lawyer. She'd tell me to go to hell before I finished the sentence.

Which was exactly why it would work.

She needed a man to take to her grandmother's birthday. I needed a woman who looked serious enough to take to that goddamn alumni event—and hopefully make my ex finally see me differently.

"Jamie—"

"I'm hanging up, Simon. Bye. Don't forget to check the email."

"Wait!" I cleared my throat. "How long are you staying at the office?"

"About thirty minutes. Why?"

"Stay there." I looked at my sweaty reflection in the window. "I'm gonna take a quick shower and I'll be right there."

"Simon, you don't need to come, just do it through the email—"

"Yes, I do. Twenty minutes."

I hung up before she could argue.