THE NEW YORK NIGHT is unusually starry with a sharp and welcome wind in the air which cools my flushed cheeks and leaves my long hair flying wildly. I walk over to the edge of the rooftop and look out onto Manhattan. A gust of air slaps the bare skin of my arms and shoulders, but somehow, I barely feel it. Despite the late hour, the buzz of the city is palpable even from the top of this tall building and yet, despite the brisk energy, something feels wrong about this place that I have loved so devotedly for so long. It’s as though this beloved city of mine that used to fill me with boundless vitality has morphed into something alien and dangerous that stares back at me coldly.
As I soak in familiar sights around Wall Street and beyond, I curse as I find myself once again unable to stop tears welling up in my eyes. I don’t know how it’s possible to have become so weak and teary and out of control of my emotions all the time. I’d barely cried in a year before I found out about Jack’s affairs, and now it’s as though some dam has been breached and every emotion is just bubbling away, ready to erupt and overflow, and I hate being like this. Every tear leaves me wondering if I will ever get my formerly strong, bold, “feisty”—as Jack calls it—personality back again.
As the early summer wind starts to whistle around me, I turn to find a bench between two huge plant pots in the middle of the rooftop and sit down, trying to quell the flow of warm tears down my face. It’s an exercise in futility. Every tear I wipe away is replaced by a new one until I finally give up and just let them flow silently.
As I fumble in my purse for a tissue to wipe my eyes, the energy around me shifts and I begin to sense… something—some presence coupled with a charge of electricity…
The hairs stand up on the back of my neck and goosebumps prickle down my arms as I spot a shape out of the corner of my eye. Mustering the courage to look, I turn to my left and let out a breathy gasp as I see a man—a tall, beautiful, dark-haired man—standing between me and the door I came through.
A man that I know—or at least that I once knew.
Cameron.
Cameron O’Neill.
Scion of the O’Neill dynasty.
My heart beats out of my chest.
Finding yourself alone with one of New York’s most breathtaking eligible bachelors is something that most women in Manhattan would kill for, but seeing the man I used to be so close to, and that I still feel so betrayed by, see me in this pitiful state is one injury too many for my battered self-esteem.
A shadow darkens his features and he frowns as he watches my tear-streaked face. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was up here,” he says taking an unwelcome step towards me, his voice deeper and richer than I remember from our college days together.
I wipe the tears from my eyes, barely able to speak. I loathe crying in front of anyone, never mind this ex-friend who has a history of hurting me.
Despite my embarrassment at being caught in this pitiful state, I can’t help but be taken aback by the intense, impossible beauty of this stunning man. A mop of thick, wavy dark-brown hair caresses the golden skin of his forehead and jaw. His strong hairline frames a chiseled, heart-shaped face with cheekbones so sharp they cut shadows beneath them. His mesmerizing, almond-shaped brown eyes are large and his irises a swirl of deep amber tones, visible in just the moonlight and the pale glow of the light above the roof door. His stubble is thick, clearly not having been touched for a couple of weeks. He seems taller than I remember too; he must stand just under six foot three, about the same height as Jack. He has a look of anguished concern on his devastating face, my attempts at concealing my distress having obviously been in vain.
“Jess, I… didn’t mean to disturb.”
It’s surreal to hear him say my name—annoying almost—as though he should no longer have the right to use it. I wipe my face and try to compose myself. I hate that the man who spent so long warning me about Jack may now think that Jack is the reason I’m upset and that he was right all along.
“You— I— You’re not disturbing. I just needed to… get some air,” I stammer, starting to get up. “I didn’t think anyone would be up here. I can go—”
“Stay,” he says firmly. “I mean, you can stay, as long as you need. Please.”
I sit back down. In the state I’m in, I’d better not try to go back down those stairs unless I want to be surrounded by people asking me what the problem is. I look up at him, half expecting him to turn and leave me to my misery.
But instead, he stays.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, a hint of distress seeping through his smooth façade.
“Of course,” I nod.
Suspended moments pass between us as he peers into me in awkward silence, studying my face with intent, his eyes wandering over every inch of my features.
“Jess, I have to ask you something.”
I swallow hard. “What?”
“Well, I’d just like to know, for future reference… This doesn’t have anything to do with the state of the hors d’oeuvres tonight, does it?”
Cameron’s unexpected attempt to break the ice leaves a warm grin escaping me, melting the ball of tension in my belly. He reciprocates with soft eyes and I smile sincerely, appreciative that Cameron still has a talent for diffusing awkward situations with his dry sense of humor.
I take the bait. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but the canapés have been very disappointing tonight. I think the vol-au-vents may have pushed me over the edge.”
He gifts me with a tender gaze. “Well, I’ll pass the critiques onto the caterer.”
“Good.”
Our eyes duel silently for half a minute before he takes a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket.
My brow furrows at the sight. Cameron and I helped each other kick the habit when we were at Brown together. Despite the resentment I’m still harboring, I hate that he could be poisoning his body like that on a regular basis.
He seems to read my frown as he starts to explain himself. “I don’t smoke.”
I raise an eyebrow and the ghost of a smile makes the smooth, lightly golden skin around his eyes crinkle.
“I have one… once a month… when I’m alone. Tonight seemed like a good night. Do you mind?” he asks, as he takes out a book of matches which he uses to light his cigarette.
“No, of course not, though there are some conspiracy theorists out there saying they may be bad your health.”
He smiles again, then pulls the cigarette to his perfectly sculpted lips and lights it up, taking a long drag which he exhales while running his eyes over my face, stunning me with the force of his gaze.
“Do you mind if I have one?” I ask.
He frowns.
“Don’t worry. I don’t smoke either, but I think I need to make an exception tonight. And I can either take one from someone or buy a whole packet on the way home…”
He hesitates for a moment before taking a few steps forward and holding open his packet. As I pull a cigarette from it and hold it to my lips, he leans towards me and lights a match deftly, cupping the flame with his capable hands. I spot a scar on his thumb that he got during a boating trip he took me and his sister Evie on. As he pulls away, one of his fingers accidentally brushes against mine for an electrifying split-second that strikes me like a thunderbolt.
It’s so surreal to see him in such close proximity after all these years of radio silence. He is stunning in a way that takes your breath away if you’re not careful and I can’t help but glance at the strong lines of his face just inches from mine. I swallow hard as my gaze runs over his lips and up his cheeks to meet unflinching eyes staring back. His stare is so intense that it jolts me to my core. I’m shocked that I’d never really noticed quite how sensational his eyes are—pools of deep, swirling amber surrounded by a thick dark-brown ring, framed by generous lashes above a straight nose. My gaze tracks downwards from the gentle curve of his brows to his sharp cheekbones and the smooth planes of his cheeks which meet inviting dusty-pink lips and a strong chin. The man is a sight to be seen, that’s for sure.
I avert my eyes and inhale the exquisite venomous smoke as tension leaves my body in an undulating wave. “I guess there’s nothing like a Wall Street gala to make you want to take up the habit again,” I mutter to myself, just loud enough for him to hear.
As I look up at the infinite inky sky, I sense Cameron studying my profile and turn to look at him. His lips part slightly and he looks at me quizzically, as if he’s about to say something but is restraining himself.
“Jess, I don’t want to get too personal, but… are you sure everything’s okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I shrug. “It’s just been one of those days.”
“Sure,” he indulges me. “Believe me, I often feel like crying after a night with some of these people.”
I shoot him a smile of gratitude at his gracious attempt to downplay the situation as my eyes float over his impossibly beautiful face. The moon emerges from behind wisps of blue clouds and lights up his unflinching eyes, leaving me skipping a breath. Cameron was one of my best friends for several years, but he never once made me as jittery as he’s doing now in all that time. In my defense, the guy truly is breathtaking. It’s no mystery why most women lose all rational thought around him. Plus, he looks so much more like a man now than when we were students together at college, and not just because of how amazingly well he’s grown into his masculine features or how much broader his shoulders are and stronger his arms look, even under his white shirt and expensive-looking black suit. His whole energy is different. The youthful exuberance has gone, and in its place is a man who looks poised and collected and unnervingly confident. His gaze is impenetrable, his face composed. He wears the body language of a man that is confident about his physical strength and social position.
He looks determined. And powerful. And dangerous.
A lock of glossy dark hair falls in front of his sharp eyes and he sweeps it back before rubbing a hand across his strong jaw. “I know you’d rather be by yourself, but I don’t feel able to leave you alone on a rooftop if you’re… upset,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Listen, if I was going down that route, I hope I’d think of something less scary than jumping off a roof. I’m not that brave.”
As he stifles a smile at my grim, inappropriate joke, the fervor in my always-platonic friend’s gaze inexplicably ups my heart rate.
“I didn’t see you downstairs,” I say.
“I prefer to make a late entrance at these things. I’m only here because mom thinks it’s important I represent the family since my father’s death.”
“I’m so sorry about your father, Cameron. He was a wonderful man.”
“Yeah, he was. He was something else.” He frowns. “And thank you… for the card. I’m sorry I never wrote back to you.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to awaken memories of the end of our friendship and the painful silence between us after Jack and I got together.
“Are you still working as an architect?” I ask, surprising myself by the level of curiosity I have about this man I’ve been so angry at for so long.
“No. When dad died, I got talked into working for the business.”
The O’Neill dynasty has various branches to its businesses. The family made their money in manufacturing in the 1920s before moving into real estate, property development, venture capital and then investment banking. They now own billions of dollars’ worth of stocks as well as real estate throughout New York. Much to his father’s chagrin and his mother’s approval, instead of following his father into the business, Cameron decided to try to make his own way in the world. I guess that plan is now on the back burner.
“Well, I hope it’s not too much of a sacrifice,” I respond, knowing how Cameron felt about the constant pressure he was under to go into the family business.
“It’s not that bad. I want to make sure the board has a good handle on everything so I can hand it off to someone else, maybe go back to what I was doing before. How about you? Are you still working in banking?”
“Uh, not right now,” I respond, wondering how he knew what I’ve been doing since I left college. “I had an operation last month to remove the pins in my leg—from that skiing accident I had a few years ago, you know.” Cameron’s face is unmoving despite stormy eyes and I wince inwardly at the memory of how he didn’t get in touch with me that year when I was so sick, a year where Jack devoted himself to looking after me so lovingly. “I’ve taken a leave of absence to give myself some time to recover properly.”
“I read some of your articles online. They were pretty hard-hitting.”
“Well, I guess I’ve never been short of opinions.”
His smile makes his cheekbones sharpen further. “Yeah, I remember. I’m fairly sure the entire teaching faculty at Brown does too.”
“Well, it’s just a hobby, really.”
“Your parents must be proud.”
“Hmm. When you have activists for parents, there’s not much choice. You either get involved in something worthwhile or get chewed out at every family get-together. I’m pretty sure the entire journalism thing is my subconscious attempt at not having to be confronted by my mom’s irate forehead vein every time I see her.”
“They’re not here tonight?”
“No,” I smile, thinking of my hippy anti-war protester parents who somehow ended up making enough money and a big enough network to end up inexplicably close to half the bourgeoisie of Manhattan. “It’s just as well. Every time they go to a function like this, I have this recurring fear that they’re going to start lobbing paint bombs around or something.”
“Yeah, I can picture that. Though I’m guessing they’ve mellowed with age?”
“Mellowed? Last week my dad turned up to a local council meeting wearing a gas mask as a protest for them allowing fracking in the area.”
I can’t stop myself grinning as Cameron bursts into deep, throaty laughter. Man, I’d forgotten how great his laugh is. It’s bold and unabashed and makes his eyes gleam mischievously. It’s one of those laughs you feel proud to have roused. It leaves you feeling giddy and desperate to make him laugh again. He turns his smile on me and I blush, half with embarrassment and half with pride at the lengths my awesome parents will go to when fighting for things they believe in.
“They’re… special,” I say, stubbing out my barely touched cigarette in the sandpit next to the bench.
Cameron follows suit. “They sure are. I miss them.”
His words sting as I think back to the beautiful Connecticut nights I spent with Cam, our families, friends and his then-girlfriend, Olivia.
“Well, your family does a lot of charity stuff, like tonight,” I say. “And it’s probably more effective than my parents’ brick-to-the-face approach.”
“To be honest, we have a P.R. firm that tells us what will look good.”
I shake my head at his statement which doesn’t do his family’s long history of philanthropy justice at all.
A few long moments pass with only the blustering wind and distant screech of sirens for company.
A twinge of distress suddenly hits Cameron’s face and he takes a deep breath as if building up the courage to say something. “Jess, I—”
Our conversation is interrupted by the faint ring of my phone. I take it out of my clutch.
JACK
I reject the call only to have him call right back. I reject it again and put my phone on mute. I’m not trying to piss him off. I just can’t face speaking to him right now.
“Your… hus— Jack must be worried about you,” says Cameron, still possessing that uncanny knack of knowing who’s calling me just by studying my face. In fact, there were moments in times past when I’ve suspected he knows me better than I know myself.
“Oh, he’s a big boy,” I mutter quietly. “I don’t think he’ll mind looking after himself for a few minutes.”
“How is… Jack?”
Whenever he says Jack’s name, that same expression comes over his face as it did at college—coldness, anger, restrained disgust, as though the mere mention of his name causes him pain.
I shudder as I think about how close Cameron and Jack were as children, and how violently they now despise each other. I never got a convincing explanation for the falling out they had a year or so before I met Jack. After many attempts to get the truth out of both of them, I gave up. In any case, once Cameron and I fell out for good, there didn’t seem much point raking it all up again.
“He’s—” I glance down at my phone. I know I’m supposed to say that Jack is just fine and dandy and that married life is an orgy of chocolate ice cream with rainbow-colored sprinkles on top. But I can’t.
Cameron’s face is solemn. He knows me too well. He always did. We were always able to communicate so much to each other with just a glance in the other’s direction. Perhaps he already heard from other sources about Jack cheating on me. Maybe every person in the room downstairs knows. They would never tell me if they did. Jack is not the kind of man anyone would want as an enemy, which is the fate awaiting a person caught gossiping about his private life.
He takes a deep breath as he watches my subdued face. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for so—”
He’s interrupted by a sudden thud—the sound of the access door to the roof being pushed open. I peer through the darkness and see a man standing in the doorway.
Shit.
Jack.
His ferocious eyes flit between me and Cameron who visibly bristles at the sight of Jack. To say that the tension between these two masses of wrathful masculine energy can be cut with a knife is the understatement of the year. The dangerous aura clinging to both of them feels like a cloud of gunpowder ready to blow.
Jack takes a step towards us, his posture stiffening. “Jessa,” he says roughly.
“Hi,” I say, jumping to my feet in a hurry. There’s no doubt about the height, build and strength of either of these men and the damage they could do to each other. Deescalating this situation is the only thing that matters now. I need to leave and fast. “I was just getting some air.”
As I head briskly towards the door, I turn back to glance at Cameron’s torrid features. Our gazes collide for a fleeting second and I turn around instantly, not wanting Jack to see me looking at Cameron, though Jack’s fierce glare is less focused on me and more on the man he spent half his childhood with.
As I walk through the threshold of the door Jack is holding open for me, I turn to face Cameron and mouth bye.
His dark expression dissolves as he looks at me.
The door closes between us.
As Jack and I head down the stairs, he shoves the spare access card he must have used to get onto the roof back into his wallet and as we reach the first landing, he stops me, caging me against the wall.
“What the hell?” he snarls.
I shove my hands into his hard chest. “What the hell what, Jack? I needed some air.”
“What the fuck were you doing with that cunt?”
“I had no idea he was going to be up there. No one was there when I arrived. He turned up and we made small talk for about a minute before you showed up.”
“You will not go near that man ever again! Is that clear?”
“And why not?” I know the answer but am clearly in the mood for a fight.
“Because I said so, damn it. Just try me, Jessynia, so help me God…” The dangerous bite in his rough voice sends a tremor through my insides.
“I don’t see when I’d ever see him again.”
“If I ever find out that you have spent time with that entitled cunt again…” His eyes are wild with jealous fury, his breathing labored.
I stare back at him coolly, pondering whether I should ask him how he can be pissed at me for briefly talking to another man when he’s been sticking it to half of Manhattan for the last six months.
“I haven’t seen him for almost three years,” I utter coldly. “I doubt I’ll see him again anytime soon.”
“There are things you don’t know about the perfect Cameron O’Neill.”
“So you’ve said before. Care to elaborate this time?”
“No, I don’t. You will not see that man again. Do you understand?”
“Fine,” I sigh in exasperation.
“I’m not fucking around here!”
“I said okay. I won’t see him again.”
He leans his rugged face closer to mine and holds the side of my face with his hand, rubbing a thumb across my bottom lip. It’s a freak of logic that I can be so dangerously enraged at a man while still enthralled by his fierce, stunning masculinity.
“Do you want to stay?” he asks into my lips, his face softening a touch. “You don’t seem yourself.”
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow at him.
A deep breath escapes the dark recesses of his chest. “Look, I get it. It’s too much. I shouldn’t have made you come here so soon after… everything. We can go… if you like.”
“I like,” I respond, relieved that I won’t have to keep up the delicate social dance that I usually handle so easily and which is now leaving me feeling shaky and inept. “You can stay, Jack. You’re clearly enjoying yourself.”
“Stay? I don’t give a fuck about this event, or these people. The only thing I care about is you. We’re leaving together.”
We return to the ballroom and spend longer than expected saying a few goodbyes which turn into conversations that I didn’t want to have, and by the time we get our coats, I’m exhausted in every way.
An hour or so later as we arrive back home, I head straight to the kitchen as Jack heads upstairs to change out of his suit. I pour myself a glass of water before taking a seat on the balcony. As I take a sip, I slip my other hand into the pocket of the jacket I coat-checked tonight and feel a thick piece of paper. I pull it out.
Unfolding it, I see a phone number and a note:
Call me if you ever need to talk. Cameron.
