The gondola jerks to a stop with a metallic screech, and before Ethan can say another word—before he can reach for my hand or offer another apology—I lurch forward and stumble out onto the pier.
My vision is blurred: tears, shame, the spinning lights of the carnival. My sandals catch on the wooden planks.
I stumble. Hard.
I brace for impact, for the humiliation of sprawling onto the dirty boards in front of everyone. But instead—
Arms.
Strong, warm, familiar arms wrap around my waist, catching me mid-fall. The scent hits me instantly—Tom Ford, sandalwood… him.
Jake.
My brother-in-law.
For one perfect, agonizing second, I collapse against his chest. I feel the hard muscle, the steady heartbeat, the solidity of him. My hands clutch at his shirtfront, gripping the linen like a lifeline as I bury my face in the hollow of his throat, where his cologne is strongest.
Please, I beg silently. Please hold me. Please don't let go.
But he does.
As soon as my feet are steady, as soon as the momentum of my fall is stopped, he steps back. His hands leave my waist. He puts exactly six inches of polite, brotherly distance between us, his face a mask of casual concern.
"Careful, kiddo," he says mildly, his eyes flicking over my shoulder to where Ethan is emerging from the gondola behind me. "Watch your step."
He catches me. He saves me from falling.
And then he discards me just as quickly.
"Cindy," he calls out, his tone sharpening. "You might want to check on your sister."
Cindy rushes over, eyes wide. When she sees my face—blotchy, tear-streaked, mascara smeared—her expression transforms. For a woman who's usually all gentle smiles and baking shows, she suddenly looks fierce.
"Jess?" She grabs my shoulders, turning me away from Jake, away from the heat of him. "What happened? Did someone hurt you?"
I glance back at Ethan. He's standing there, pale and awkward, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
"Misunderstanding," he mumbles, staring at the ground. "I'm sorry, Jessica. Misread… should've known. Won't happen again."
Cindy's eyes narrow. She steps toward him, her voice dropping into a dangerous whisper.
"You laid a hand on my sister?"
"It's fine," I choke out quickly, grabbing Cindy's arm. "I asked him to stop, and he did. I just… I just want to go home."
I want to go home with him.
With Jake.
Even if he's acting like he barely knows me.
The drive back to the house is torture.
I sit in the backseat of Jake's BMW, staring out at the passing streetlights, while Cindy frets in the passenger seat. Every time we hit a pothole, the vibration shudders through me, reminding me of the ache, the need.
Jake drives in silence. He doesn't look at me in the rearview mirror. He doesn't ask if I'm okay. His eyes stay fixed on the road, his hand resting on Cindy's knee, thumb stroking her skin in that proprietary way that makes my stomach twist with jealousy.
Why? I wonder, pressing my thighs together beneath my sundress. Why catch me if you're just going to pretend like touching me burned you?
Back at the house, Cindy bustles around, making tea, asking if I want to talk. I shake my head, mumble something about a headache, and escape to the guest room.
I wait.
I sit on the edge of the bed, heart hammering, listening for his footsteps.
I expect him to come.
I expect him to knock on my door, slip inside, demand to know what happened on the Ferris wheel. I expect jealousy, anger, something.
But he doesn't come.
Through the door, I hear him downstairs. I hear him laughing with Cindy. The clink of ice in a whiskey glass. The TV turning on—some sports game.
Normal.
Domestic.
Perfect.
And I'm lying here, trembling, clutching the pillow to my chest, trying not to scream.
Ethan's touch confirmed it. His earnest, gentle desire… and I felt nothing.
But when Jake caught me on the pier—for those three seconds—I felt alive.
"Jess?" Cindy's voice breaks through the haze, followed by a knock.
I jerk upright. "Yeah?"
She opens the door, apologetic. "Hey, honey. I'm so sorry, but I have to run into the office. Corporate emergency—server crash or something. I'll be back by midnight, maybe one. Will you be okay alone?"
I glance past her, down the hallway.
Jake is standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at us. His face is impassive, but his eyes—God, his eyes—burn into me for a second before he looks away.
"I'll be fine," I whisper, voice hoarse. "Jake's here."
Cindy smiles, oblivious. "Of course. He'll take care of you. He's the best."
She kisses my forehead, grabs her purse, and she's gone.
The front door closes.
The house settles into silence.
Just us.
The realization sinks over me like a heavy blanket. Tonight, we're alone. No Cindy. No Ethan. No interruptions.
Just me.
Just him.
And this hunger that won't stop eating me alive.
I rise slowly, catching my reflection in the mirror—flushed, desperate, ruined. I smooth my wrinkled sundress, wipe the last traces of tears from my cheeks.
Then I walk to the door.
I open it.
And I look down the stairs.
Jake stands in the living room, whiskey in hand, back turned, shoulders broad beneath his shirt. He hasn't heard me yet. He thinks I'm safe up here, behind my closed door, behind my good-girl facade.
But I'm not safe.
I'm not good.
I stand at the top of the stairs, one hand on the railing, and take a deep breath.
Just once, I tell myself. Just tonight. Last time.
I need this, or I'll die.
I step down.
One step.
Two.
Toward him.
Toward my ruin.
Toward the only thing that makes me feel whole.