BLINDSIDED.

    That’s what I am.

    Tripp nudges me with his elbow. “Babe, this is my biological dad. Sebastian.”

    Sebastian.

    The full name feels too formal for the night we shared. A night I think about more often than I should. A night during which we barely touched, and yet it rivals the intimacy of any night I’ve ever spent with a man.

    I stare back at Bash, his hawkish, dark eyes slicing through me from beneath heavy, furrowed brows.

    My stomach is in knots. My pulse is in my throat. My heart falls somewhere down near my feet. Words fail me.

    In a desperate attempt to make this introduction look a hell of a lot less awkward than it really is, I wipe one sweaty palm on my silky kaftan dress before outstretching it toward Bash.

    His gaze flits down to it, and his expression tells me he’d rather do anything but shake my hand.

    And he does.

    He shoves his fists into his dark-wash jeans and hits me with the world’s tightest smile. “Nice to meet you, Gwen.”

    Awkwardness be damned, I guess.

    It feels like someone just pped me. He shows no signs of recognizing me, and the warm rasp I remember in his voice is notably absent. His bodynguage is as closed off as a fucking prison cell. He doesn’t even tell me to call him Bash. It appears he’s relegated me to Sebastian terms.

    Which honestly pisses me off. Ire surges through me as the shock of the moment wanes.

    “Sure is,” I spit out, letting a little venom seep into my voice.

    Because how dare he?

    There’s a kind way to let a girl down, and it isn’t by letting her constantly check her phone like a desperate teenager hoping that the cute boy she’s obsessed with might text her.

    For months.

    I stayed positive and “ss half-full” and all those things I pride myself on being while I waited for him to reach out.

    And he didn’t.

    Even a simple I had a wonderful time with you, but it’s best we go our separate ways would have sufficed. I’m a big girl—I could have dealt with that kind of rejection.

    But this? Tripp’s dad? The universe really decided to fuck me on this one.

    “I’m gonna go make some introductions. You good if I leave you here?” Tripp tosses an arm over my shoulder, tugging me toward him in a side hug before dropping a casual kiss on my hair. But all I can do is watch Bash. shes of heat appear on his cheeks as his gaze follows his son. He flinches when Tripp kisses me, then he turns his head away from us.

    I try to will the tension out of my shoulders. I don’t want Tripp to notice how ufortable I am. It’s not as though I’ve done anything wrong, but exining that night to him? Any exnation would seem trite—it wouldn’t do it justice.

    “Of course.” I nod quickly, a light tremor in my voice.

    Bash’s brow lifts, and I see him peek at me out of the corner of my eye. Tripp doesn’t notice my difort at all. Instead, he just grips Bash’s shoulder and leads him away into the crowd.

    To the outside observer, it would appear that I’m staring at the guy I showed up here with.

    But they would be wrong.

    I’m staring at his dad.hr

    I flit through the party, making small talk with strangers whose names I won’t remember when I wake up tomorrow morning.

    It’s beyond painful. This couldn’t be further from my scene if it tried. I’m wearing a thrifted silk dress with nobel, while across thewn, there is literally a woman in a Chanel pencil skirt and matching zer. Her heels sink in the grass with each step, and I watch her adjust her stride, walking on her tiptoes to make it look like the ground isn’t swallowing her feet.

    Everything about these people and this ce is an illusion.

    Luckily, my leather slides do me just fine as I make my way toward an empty cocktail table on thewn. It’s covered in a stretchy, pale-blue tablecloth, which makes it feel like a party for a little boy, not a grown professional athlete. But then, the way his mom treats him is downright childlike. Like she shot him out of her vagina to songbirds chirping, a double rainbow arching across the sky, as the hospital staff erupted into a celebratory sh mob dance.

    Before today I didn’t realize that Tripp is a full-fledged mama’s boy. And not in the way that means he respects and speaks highly of her. No. Instead he borderline reverts to being a little boy around her.

    Suffice it to say, it’s been a weird day. I chuckle dryly as I sit, taking in the party around me. There must be over a hundred people here, and I feel like a total outsider. But it doesn’t bother me. I take it in all the same. I love to travel, to learn and experience different cultures.

    And this is just that. A cultural experience.

    Tripp and I have been casually seeing each other for a few months. We met when I taught yoga and mindfulness sses for his team during the yoffs. He was charming and determined and seemed like a fun time. He asked me out after every ss, and I finally caved on the fifth attempt and said yes.

    During the season, he was frequently on the road, and that worked fine for me. I don’t want or need to spend every waking hour with him. I’ve always had a wanderer’s spirit, moving from city to city and filling in at different studios. Settling down is low on my to-do list, and Tripp seemed like a perfectly passable Mr. Right Now.

    But now the season has ended, and he’s around. A lot. Possibly too much for my taste.

    This always happens to me. I meet someone who seems great, and then they slowly start to annoy me. They get attached more quickly than I do, and I end up feeling locked in, tied down, stuck.

    I start envisioning myself as my mother, trapped in a house with her babies and no possibilities on the horizon.

    And I run.

    At twenty-seven years old, I have figured out this much out about myself. I know it’s not healthy, but I own it all the same. Which is why I’ve been clear with Tripp about where we stand. He knows I have no intention of staying in Vancouver, that I’m here for a good time, not a long time.

    So the way he’s trotting me out and introducing me to everyone as his girlfriend feels strangely performative.

    Before today, I hadn’t met his parents, and truthfully, there’s been nothing rtionship-like about our setup. Him introducing me as his fuck buddy would be a lot more urate. But instead, he picked me up in his expensive sports car with aundry list of rules about how to act around his parents.

    It would seem that, with the Colemans, perception reigns supreme.

    Especially considering he told me his biological dad was a deadbeat who left his mom when he found out she was pregnant.

    I nce toward the sprawling house to see Tripp and Bash walking back in my direction. Side by side, I can see the simrities.

    It makes me think of that night. My shoulder pressed against Bash’s, gliding backward on the motorized walkway as he recounted the story of the child he never knew existed. Now that story sours my stomach. Because despite all my hurt feelings around Bash… I know what I saw that night in the airport. The grief that touched every square inch of his body.

    And the sanitized storyline Tripp fed me is too damn convenient. Turning Bash into the viin makes the Colemans look mature and gracious, downright hospitable to even wee him into their home. I know that was my first thought when Tripp told me his biological dad wasing today. And now he’s parading him around, introducing him to people and acting like including him makes Tripp worthy of nomination for sainthood.

    It’s bizarre. It’s cruel. And it’s a lie.

    It’s a lie that shines a different light on Tripp Coleman—and a bad one. A small part of me wonders if he even knows the real story or if he’s been lied to as well. There’s something off about the way he acts around his mom, I just can’t quite put my finger on it.

    I’d call him out on it here and now, but I think it would gut Bash to hear it. So I decide to bite my tongue and save it forter.

    A tray full of champagne passes by, and I swipe one with a quiet “Thank you.”

    The caterer smiles back with a subtle nod. She looks nice. And normal. I’m probably better suited to hanging out with her and her colleagues behind the tent.

    Instead, I’m stuck pretending I belong in this viper pit. What I thought was going to be a fun party has devolved into an awkward, secret-fueled, rich-person alternate universe.

    I toss back a mouthful of chilled champagne just as the two men approach.

    Am I using alcohol as a coping mechanism today? Yes.

    Do I care? No.

    My heart races, and my blood feels sluggish in my veins as I take another drink, my gaze darting toward the ocean. I’d rather be sitting on the shore, meditating. Feet in the sand, finding some semnce of solid ground.

    Earlier, when I tried to head down there, Tripp specified it would be more “appropriate” to keep my shoes on, as though I nned to go skinny-dipping in front of his parents’ friends.

    That should have been my first clue from the universe that today was destined to go sideways.

    To anyone else, it might seem like nothing happened between Bash and me. Like I’m making a mountain out of a molehill by feeling as off-kilter as I do.

    But for me? That night? Something happened.

    I can’t put my finger on it, and god knows I’ve spent many ate night staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why I haven’t been able to shake his memory.

    Maybe it was the way he looked at me or the way he listened to me. Hell, it could have been the way weughed together. Or maybe it was the spark I felt when his hand enveloped mine. I’ve wondered if it was one of those moments in the universe where all the stars align—where every little choice made in life led us to that airport on that exact night.

    Maybe it was just a little bit of magic. Inexplicable and undeniable all at once.

    What I do know for sure is that it’s been eight months, and I still think about Sebastian Rousseau every damn day.

    I gnaw on the inside of my cheek as they approach the table. Bash looks stoic, his jaw clenched so tight it’s going to be sore tomorrow from all the teeth-grinding he’s doing. Meanwhile, Tripp appears affable and polished as the sun glints a rusty tone off his auburn hair.

    “Hey, babe, how you doin’?”

    I smile, but it’s forced. “Great. I’m great.”

    Except I’m not. Bash won’t even look my way. His gaze stays locked on the water.

    The awkwardness gnaws at me. He’s clearly pissed.

    Anxiety swirls and the sinking realization that he might be angry over my rtionship with Tripp hits hard and fast.

    Another caterer passes by, drawing my gaze away from him. “Arancini?” she asks, holding out a tray of bite-size golden fried spheres.

    Tripp and Bash pass, but I jump at the opportunity. “Hell yes,” I say as I reach for a cocktail napkin. Partly because I’m hungry, and partly because I figure if my mouth is full, it will give me something to do and possibly spare me from the awkward lie of a conversation that’s about to ur right in front of me.

    I take one, then tip my head, considering. They’re small, so I select another and offer the girl a friendly smile as she departs.

    Tripp leans close and drops another casual kiss on my hair with a light chuckle. “Easy, girl. Don’t eat too much.”

    Easy, girl?

    I pause, my brows furrowing as I stare down at the two bite-size pieces of food on the napkin in my hand, wondering if I misheard my “boyfriend.”

    Did he really just tell me not to eat too much?

    “The fuck did you just say to her?” Bash’s voice is cold as ice from across the table.

    I can’t bring myself to face him, but I do look up, eyes tracing Tripp’s svelte physique as I make my way up to his face.

    “All in good fun, right, babe?” He winks at me, like I’m in on his joke, and turns his attention to his dad, who is staring daggers at him.

    “No. Not in good fun,” Bash says. “That was in rude.”

    Tripp scoffs and waves him off. “It was a joke. I just meant save some room for dinner. Don’t make it into something else.”

    I shift away from Tripp, not liking the version of him thates out to y around his family.

    It was rude. And maniptive. An unweementary on what and how much I’m eating disguised as a joke—a tactic my dad employed masterfully when I was younger.

    “Hrious,” I say sarcastically before popping one ball of rice into my mouth. “A real knee-pper, babe.”

    Tripp winces, and I can see the apology in his eyes. I shake my head subtly back at him. If today has proven anything, it’s that he acts like an asshole around his family.

    It’s like I’m dating Dr. Jekyll—and Mr. Hyde has juste out to y.

    He says nothing, so I give him a thumbs-up before lifting the second one in a salute. “Cheers, boys.” I stand and add, “I’ll be back. Gonna go see what other snacks I can track down to fill up on.”

    As I depart, their stato murmurs trail behind me, but the hum of the surrounding party swallows any words I might be able to make out. What I can tell is that, for the first time today, Bash is pissed at Tripp rather than just in general.

    I finish chewing the arancini, but I don’t taste it. And I don’t bother looking for more snacks. It feels like every pair of eyes here is trained on me—the curvy, hippie chick Cecilia’s golden boy randomly brought home.

    I slip into the house and make a beeline for one of the many bathrooms on the main floor. It’s a small powder room and not the closest one to the backyard, so I’m hoping it’s a private spot to hide out for a few minutes. Once inside, I shut the door behind me, lean back against it, and drop my chin to my chest, letting out a heavy sigh.

    “Fuck me,” I mutter quietly, a disbelievingugh spilling from my lips.

    But the vibration of a knock, followed by a deep voice that makes my stomach flip over on itself, cuts my amusement short.

    “Gwen? Open up.”

    Bash chooses now to follow through? Infuriating. He’s got no business.

    “I don’t think that would be very appropriate” is what I say back.

    But Bash isn’t deterred. “Too bad. I’ming in.” The weight of him pushes on the door, like he thinks he’s just going to st his way in here or something.

    Not wanting to cause a scene, I step away and turn the handle. “What the hell, Bash? Someone is going to see and—”

    He steps in with authority, crowding me into the small room, before spinning and locking the door.

    “What are you doing here?” he asks quietly, still not turning to face me. His broad shoulders heave as he breathes.

    He knows damn well what I’m doing here. “I could ask you the same thing.”

    “Visiting my son for his birthday. And you knew about that.” He whirls around, usation ring in his eyes as his index finger jabs the air in front of me. “You knew I’d just found out about my son. We were in the Vancouver airport for crying out loud. He told you about me, and you thought, what? That it would be funny to ignore me and date him instead?”

    My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

    “You heard me, Gwen. What kind of sick joke are you ying?”

    Bash is riled up—his chest rising and falling, his hands shaking—but as furious as he seems with me, I don’t feel threatened at all. No, I press my shoulders back, cross my arms, and square off, meeting his zing gaze with my own.

    But as I stand my ground, I try not to slip down the rabbit hole where I fixate on our night in the airport. A safe ce I like to sink into when I feel like torturing myself.

    “I should ask you the same thing. You didn’t care enough to contact me, but now you’re going to stomp around all mad because I’m dating your son?”

    His jaw works. “Are you—?” He stops and averts his gaze from me, shaking his head tightly. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

    His look of disbelief, as though he’s offended, washes over me, leaving me chilled.

    “No,” I whisper, the sinking feeling that something is very, very wrong suffusing my body.

    “No, you know what? Here.” He pulls out his phone and jabs the screen with his finger like he’s trying to break it. Then he hands it to me. “You ghosted me. So don’t bother ying dumb. I can handle the rejection but not being treated like I’m an idiot.”

    I stare at the screen, showing a few texts sent a couple of weeks apart. Delivered but never responded to by me. A growing sensation of panic takes root in my gut.

    “I never got these.”

    I never got these. I never got these. I never got these.

    He scoffs, and my eyes flit to the contact name. Gwen Margaritas.

    Tears spring to my eyes as my shaking finger taps the icon. I read the number. 555–7669.

    Six-six-nine.

    “Honestly, you don’t owe me anything,” Bash rants on as realization settles in my bones. “But this is just fucking weird. And what’s worse is he’s out there disrespecting you to your face, and that makes me want to break something…”

    Without thinking, I reach for him, my palmnding t on his chest to still him. Every muscle in his body tenses. “Bash.”

    “What?” He spits the word, ring down at my hand like my touch offends him. But he doesn’t shake me off.

    “The number is wrong.” He blinks as I hold his phone out, open to the contact card. “It’s six-nine-nine not six-six-nine.”

    His sharp inhaleunches the small powder room into silence. You could hear a pin drop. I don’t think either of us is breathing.

    “I never got your messages, and if I had…” I swallow, trailing off and licking my lips. “I…” A frustrated groan lurches from my throat when I see the devastation etched on this man’s face as he looks beyond me, staring nkly at the perfectly white wall.

    He’s gutted. I see it on his face. I feel it in his body.

    Hell, I can feel it in my own. This is a cruel, cruel joke. Because I may not know him well, but I ache for him all the same. I would have chosen him.

    I curl my fingers, gripping his cotton T-shirt—trying to get his attention, to drive my point home. “Bash, I waited months for you to contact me. If I’d gotten those messages… You have to know I would have responded.”

    My voice turns almost pleading as I repeat, “I would have.”

    His eyes scour my face as though checking for any signs of deceit. He looks how I feel.

    Sucker punched.

    He takes the phone from me, gaze boring into the incorrectly entered number. An understandable mistake for someone who stayed up all night.

    I should have taken his number.

    We should have nned better.

    His lips twitch, and his Adam’s apple bobs, but he doesn’t look back up at me.

    Instead, without another word, he turns, yanks the door open, and storms out.

    I stand there, frozen—shaken. And that feeling is only made worse when, several secondster, I hear a loud, “Fuck!” followed by what sounds an awful lot like a fist going through a wall.