Chapter 1: My Secret Circle
Caitlin's POV
"Jesus Christ, Caitlin, pick up the damn phone."
I stared at my phone buzzing relentlessly on the marble bathroom counter, Daniel's cum still dripping down my thighs as hot water cascaded over us both. The caller ID read "Mom" in that font that always made my stomach clench.
"Hey, Mom." I tried to sound like I hadn't just been fucked against the shower wall.
"Caitlin Morrison, where have you been? I've been calling for twenty minutes!"
Daniel's fingers traced lazy circles on my lower back, making it impossible to concentrate. 'Seriously, dude? Now is not the time.'
"I was in the shower, Mom. What's up?"
"Honey, you're twenty-six years old. You need to start thinking about settling down." Her voice carried that particular blend of love and exasperation that only mothers could master. "I've arranged dinner for you with a good boy."
I closed my eyes, letting the hot water wash away the last traces of morning sex. "Mom, I've told you a million times—"
"God, you have to do it."
"Fine. Send me the details."
The line went dead before I could protest further. Daniel's arms wrapped around my waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder.
"Another setup?" His voice held that careful neutrality he'd perfected over the years.
"You know how my mother is about grandchildren." I turned in his arms, studying his face. Those amber eyes that had gotten me into trouble since law school were unreadable.
Daniel's laugh was soft but hollow. "Yeah, I know."
We finished showering in comfortable silence, the kind that comes from years of shared mornings. Daniel handed me my towel—always the good one, never the scratchy backup—and I watched him in the mirror as he shaved.
This was our routine. Our perfectly choreographed dance of not-quite-couple domesticity.
"I made that pasta salad you like," he said, rinsing his razor. "And there's leftover wine from Thursday."
Daniel gathered his keys from the coffee table. "I probably won't be back until late tonight," he said, checking his phone. "Got to pick someone up from the airport."
My stomach dropped. "Emily's back today?"
The look that flashed across his face told me everything. "Yeah. Her firm transferred her back from Seattle."
Emily fucking White.
Daniel's law school sweetheart, with her perfect blonde hair and perfect blue eyes and perfect everything that I decidedly was not. She'd been gone for years, building her career at some hotshot firm on the West Coast, and Daniel had been... what? Waiting?
"How long has she been planning this?" I kept my voice casual, organizing papers I'd already organized twice.
"A few months, I think." He paused by the door. "Cait, you know this doesn't change anything between us, right?"
'Right. Because there's nothing to change.'
"Of course not," I said, giving him my brightest smile. "Why would it?"
After he left, I stood in the middle of my living room, surrounded by the evidence of our weird little arrangement. His coffee mug on the end table. His law journals stacked neatly next to mine. His spare charger plugged into the wall.
We lived together, we fucked regularly, he cooked for me and remembered how I liked my coffee. But I wasn't his girlfriend.
I was never his girlfriend.
The memory hit me like it always did—sudden and sharp, dragging me back to that night years ago at O'Malley's, the dive bar where every law student went to celebrate surviving finals.
I was twenty-two and stupid enough to think Daniel's growing attention meant something more than friendship. We'd been study partners for years, grab-coffee-between-classes partners, stay-up-until-3AM-arguing-about-constitutional-law partners. But that night, with graduation looming and everyone talking about their plans, I thought maybe...
The bar was packed, all dark wood and cheap beer and the kind of desperate energy that comes with ending one chapter of your life. I'd worn my favorite black dress—the one that made me feel powerful—and spent an hour on my makeup.
Daniel had been drinking more than usual. When he grabbed the mic during karaoke, my heart started hammering against my ribs.
"I want to say something to someone really special," he said, his voice slightly slurred but sincere. The entire bar quieted down, all eyes on him. "Someone who's been my best friend through all of this crazy shit, who believes in justice the way I do, who makes me want to be better."
My cheeks burned. This was it. This was finally fucking it.
"I'm completely in love with you," Daniel continued, and I swear my heart stopped beating. "Emily White, will you be my girlfriend?"
The sound of shattering glass cut through the cheers—my beer bottle hitting the floor. Emily, perfect fucking Emily, stood frozen near the pool table, her mouth forming a perfect O of surprise.
I was out the door before Daniel could finish his speech, before Emily could give him her answer, before anyone could see the tears of humiliation streaming down my face.
Daniel found me twenty minutes later, sitting on the steps behind the building like a kicked dog.
"Cait, Jesus, I've been looking everywhere for you."
"Congratulations," I managed, not looking at him. "Emily's perfect for you."
He sat down beside me, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with beer. "You know you're my best friend, right? That's never going to change."
Best friend. The fucking friend zone, delivered with a side of pity.
"Of course," I said, forcing a smile. "Best friends forever, right?"
I shook off the memory and looked around my apartment with fresh eyes. Emily was back. Which meant Daniel would be... what? Moving out? Moving on? Finally getting his happily ever after with his law school sweetheart?
"Fuck that," I said to the empty room.
If Emily wanted Daniel back, she could have him. But I wasn't going to sit around and watch their reunion like some pathetic third wheel.
I had options. I always had options.
Thirty minutes later, I was driving across town toward the Arts District. Parking outside the converted warehouse that housed Ryan's loft, I sat for a moment, gathering my nerve.
I used my key—the only key Ryan had ever given to anyone, a fact he reminded me of regularly—and climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor. The sound of running water and off-key singing greeted me before I even reached his door.
Ryan's loft was classic struggling musician chic: a mattress on the floor, guitars hanging from every available wall space, and empty beer bottles forming tiny armies on every surface. It smelled like cigarettes and leather and something indefinably male that always made my pulse quicken.
The bathroom door was cracked, steam escaping into the main room. Through the gap, I could see Ryan's silhouette moving behind the frosted glass of his shower.
He was singing something by The Black Keys, his voice rough and gravelly the way it got when he'd been drinking the night before. Water drummed against the tile in a steady rhythm.
I dropped my bag and settled onto his couch—a leather monstrosity that had probably been expensive twenty years ago—to wait.
Five minutes later, Ryan emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping from his dark hair onto his tattooed shoulders. He stopped short when he saw me, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"Well, well. Only one person has a key to this place, sweetheart." His green eyes—those devastating eyes that had gotten me into this mess in the first place—locked onto mine. "And that means..."
He moved toward me with the predatory grace that made him magnetic on stage, drops of water trailing down his chest, over the intricate black and gray tattoos that covered most of his torso.
"It means you need me."
Before I could respond, he was behind the couch, his hands on my shoulders, his mouth close to my ear.
"I just got cleaned up," he murmured, his breath warm against my neck. "Squeaky clean, just for you. Perfect timing, baby."
