Raphael drove me home before heading to pick up Lily, the silence between us warm instead of awkward. The city blurred past the windows, golden in the late afternoon light. We didn’t speak much, but we didn’t need to.
Something had settled between us—tentative but real.
And I wasn’t sure what scared me more: how easy it felt, or how badly I wanted it to stay that way.
We pulled up to my building and sat there like teenagers after prom, except instead of wondering if we'd kiss, I was wondering if I had the balls to invite him up.
Fuck it. YOLO.
"Would you like to come upstairs?" The words came out barely above a whisper, which was embarrassing as hell for someone who'd literally had a foursome last week.
He turned to look at me, and Christ on a cracker, the hunger in his eyes could've melted steel. But then—because apparently Raphael Sullivan was made of stronger stuff than mere mortals—he pulled that CEO control out of his ass.
"I don't enjoy rushing things with a woman," he said, voice rough like gravel.
The words hit different. This wasn't rejection. This was restraint. This was a promise wrapped in denial, and somehow that was hotter than if he'd just said yes and railed me against my front door.
"Okay," I managed, because what else do you say when someone basically tells you they want to savor you instead of devour you?
He leaned over, kissed me once—hard, claiming, full of everything he wasn't going to do tonight—then pulled back. "Goodnight, Dakota."
I stumbled out of his car on legs made of jello and sexual frustration. Made it to my apartment. Locked the door. Leaned against it.
Holy fuck.
My body was lit up like a Christmas tree in Times Square. Every nerve ending screaming. Three years of celibacy followed by one wild night, then Stephen in the car, now this—my system was in full revolt.
Didn't even make it to the bedroom. Grabbed my vibrator from the nightstand (yes, I keep it close, sue me), collapsed on the couch, and went to town like my life depended on it.
I closed my eyes and it was all Raphael. Those controlled hands finally losing it. That CEO voice telling me exactly what he was going to do to me. The devastating patience finally snapping.
I came so hard I saw stars. Then I did it again because apparently I'm an overachiever in all areas of life.
Sunday arrived with all the subtlety of a foghorn.
Amber had booked us a full day at Celestial Bridal, the kind of place where they serve champagne in actual crystal flutes and the lighting makes everyone look like a fucking Disney princess.
"I can't believe you're actually getting married," I said, watching Amber twirl in dress number four—a mermaid situation that made her ass look incredible.
"I can't believe it took Bryson one year to propose," she shot back, admiring herself in the three-way mirror. "Like, buddy, we've been friends since high school. You've seen me at my worst. What were you waiting for, a sign from God?"
That was the thing about Amber, Bryson and me. We'd been in our friend group forever—the three musketeers of Freeman Industries' next generation.
Amber with her marketing genius and take-no-prisoners attitude.
Bryson with his IT wizardry and laid-back charm that balanced her chaos perfectly.
And me, the perpetually single workaholic making terrible decisions with architectural intent.
"He was probably coding the perfect proposal algorithm," I said, sipping champagne that definitely cost more than my grocery budget.
"He actually did create a whole website for it," Amber laughed, moving on to dress number five—ballgown princess vibes. "Complete with a countdown timer and our relationship timeline. Such a nerd. My nerd, but still."
Something twisted in my chest. Not jealousy exactly, but... longing? For what? A normal relationship that developed over years instead of whatever the fuck I was doing with the Sullivan brothers?
"Oh my god, this one," Amber breathed, and I looked up to see her in The Dress. You know the one—where suddenly your best friend transforms from regular human to ethereal bride goddess.
"Shit," I said, and realized my eyes were getting misty. "You look—"
"Are you crying?" Amber's grin was wicked. "Dakota Freeman, ice queen of architecture, is crying at wedding dresses?"
"Shut up, it's the champagne."
"It's eleven AM."
"Time is a social construct."
She turned back to the mirror, smoothing the dress that made her look like everything good in the world.
"God, all these dresses are gorgeous and I can't pick one. Are you going to cry all day or actually help me?" She caught my eye in the reflection, smile turning sly. "Just remember, I'll remember this moment when it's your turn to pick a wedding dress."
Heat crept up my neck like a fucking traitor. "Why do you assume I'll ever need a wedding dress at all?"
The words came out defensive. Too defensive. Amber's bride-radar immediately went off.
She stopped mid-twirl, fixing me with her patented 'I will extract your secrets' stare. The one that had gotten me to admit to my crush on our history teacher in tenth grade. The one that made Bryson confess he'd been in love with her since junior year.
"Because I know you," she said slowly, stepping off the pedestal in a rustle of tulle and determination. "And I can tell something's going on. You're not leaving until you tell me what it is."
Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
"There's nothing—"
"Dakota Freeman, you've been glowing like you have sex again." Her eyes narrowed.
"That's not—"
"You've been having LOTS of sex. Like, marathon sex. Life-changing sex. The kind of sex that makes you cry at wedding dresses because suddenly you're thinking about futures and feelings and—holy shit." She grabbed my hands, champagne forgotten. "You're in love."
"I'm not in love!" The protest came out too loud. The saleswoman gave us a concerned look.
"You're something," Amber pressed. "And it's big. Bigger than just getting laid. Spill. Now. Or I'm telling Bryson you're the one who accidentally corrupted the server last month."
"That was an accident!"
"Irrelevant. Talk."
I stared at her, my best friend since forever, standing there in a wedding dress that cost more than my car, demanding my secrets with the tenacity of a detective and the love of someone who'd held my hair back through every bad decision.
My stomach dropped somewhere around my ankles. There was no escape. No deflection. No witty comeback that would get me out of this.
My perfectly controlled life was about to become gossip fodder for my best friend, and honestly? Part of me was relieved.
Because keeping this secret was eating me alive, and if anyone could help me figure out what the fuck I was doing, it was Amber.
Even if she was definitely going to judge me. Hard.