What He’s Hiding?

Lily Thompson

I was trying to remember all the reasons I should hate him. All the pain he caused me. All the nights I stayed up wondering what I did wrong. But the memories felt slippery lately, blurred by his ridiculous smile and the way he made my–our daughter laugh like nothing else mattered.

The toast popped up three minutes ago, but I still hadn’t moved.

I sat at the dining table in my sleep-rumpled tee, staring at the butter knife poised above the plate, willing my pulse to slow down. It refused. Unfortunately, so did my imagination.

Heat crawled through me every time my mind replayed the accidental “good-morning groping” that had happened in Ryan’s bed.

I squeezed my eyes shut and felt the treacherous throb at the back of my throat.

Stop thinking about him.

Stop thinking about the way his stomach tightened under your fingers.

Stop thinking about how hard—

My thighs clenched involuntarily, and I bit out a curse beneath my breath.

This was ridiculous. I was twenty three, not thirteen. I’d had six years to purge Ryan Edwards from every nerve ending. I should be angry, furious at the memory of him holding me like I was still his.

Instead my body hummed and I secretly wanted more

Get it together, Lily.

I dragged the toast toward me, trying to butter it but the butter slipped. A streak landed on the back of my hand,warm, glossy reminding me too much of how wet I was from sliding my palm over hard, heated dick.

I swallowed a groan, wiped the smear away, then forced myself to recall the last night we’d shared as a couple. The real last night, the one that ended in me being pregnant

He had promised me that he would be with me forever. We made plans for our future babies and planned names for each of them. We even went as far as planning a wedding and planning who would be our guests

I remember how excited I was to tell him the news of my pregnancy

But when the time came for him to fulfill his promises or atleast support me and be by my side, he was nowhere to be found.

He was gone. Without a text or phone call. Just gone

He didn’t state a reason, he just left while I was left to face the world with a positive pregnancy strip.

And just like that, I hated him all over again. For making me feel safe enough to touch. For disappearing without warning and then acting like he never left.

My chest tightened. That pain,yes, remember that, it was supposed to keep me safe from this stupid, traitorous yearning.

Footsteps padded across the hallway. I wiped the butter crumbs from my fingers and fixed my expression into neutral.

Ryan strolled in wearing nothing but gray sweatpants and a towel draped across his shoulders fresh from the shower, hair damp, chest bare.

God had to be mocking me.

He caught me looking but didn’t hide the grin that flickered at the corner of his mouth. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Morning,” I muttered, staring pointedly at my toast.

He wandered to the coffeemaker. The muscles in his back flexed as he reached for a mug. Every tiny movement drew my attention like magnetic filings. I hated that. Hated that my pulse synced with the slow drip of coffee.

“So,” he said casually, pouring, “how’s the hand?”

“My hand?”

“The one that couldn’t keep itself to itself.” Steam curled around his smile.

Blood rushed to my cheeks. Kill me now. “It was dark. I was asleep. You were a heat source. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, set the mug down, and braced both palms on the counter, leaning forward just enough to show a teasing edge. “You keep telling yourself that.” He shot me a wink.

I rolled my eyes and reached for the jam, missed the lid, and knocked the jar with a dull clink. It tipped and I lunged to catch it

And so did Ryan.

His hand closed over mine, steadying the jar an inch from disaster. The touch sent lightning up my arm. I froze. So did he.

“Nice reflexes,” he murmured, his voice low, too close.

“You almost spilled it,” I said, refusing to meet his gaze. My hand was still under his. He wasn’t letting go.

“Could’ve been worse,” he said softly. “Could’ve been coffee.”

Ryan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said too quickly.

He scanned my face, as if seeking a crack in the mask. He found plenty, no doubt. “You’ve avoided looking at me all morning.”

“I’m looking at you now.” I said, finally lifting my eyes to meet his. Mistake. His chest was right there, droplets of water tracking down the defined line of his sternum.

Heat flared low in my belly.

God, get a grip, Lily.

He brushed a damp lock of hair off his forehead. “If what happened this morning bothered you—”

“It didn’t.” Lie. It bothered me in all the wrong ways.

“Great. I wasn’t bothered either,” he said softly. “Not even a little.”

My breath hitched. He stepped closer. Bold, indeed.

I scooted back on the chair, nearly tipping it. “Coffee’s ready,” I blurted, pointing behind him.

He huffed a short laugh, but turned to retrieve his mug anyway. I used the distraction to flee to my room and change for work.

Later, after dropping Isabella at school, we reached Denzol HQ—a day of meetings stretched ahead, yet my mind wasn’t on budgets. It was on that brief moment in the kitchen when Ryan’s warm breath had brushed my ear as he teased me, pleasant and terrifying in equal measure.

I tried to focus, but my gaze kept sneaking toward him whenever he crossed the open office, and every time I looked up, he happened to meet my eyes. Coincidence, I told myself. Except the third time, he winked.

Bold. The man was infuriatingly, devastatingly bold.

At lunch, Isabella’s glitter still clung to the sleeve of his blazer. I wanted to brush it off but stopped myself. That would mean touching him. Again.

I stayed late to finalize a budget draft. Theo emailed Ryan a file marked “URGENT,” but he was still on a call. I hurried over to print it from his desk.

When I opened the drawer to grab a pen, something caught my eye.

I noticed the small leather case in the bottom drawer. It was ajar, like it had been opened recently.

I knew I shouldn’t, but a nudge of curiosity pushed me. I pulled the drawer fully open and lifted the lid.

Inside lay a watch,stainless steel, skeleton dial, sapphire crystal. Elegant but unmistakably expensive.

A brand I recognized from a finance article: Lang & Peregrine limited edition. Only fifty pieces were made globally.

Price tag? A year’s rent in Manhattan.

I inhaled sharply.

Ryan owned a watch more expensive than his annual salary. How?

It made no sense.

How could he afford that??