“I know but . . .” He props his hands on his hips and looks at the ceiling. “I’m thinking about your sister,” he finally says with a sigh. “You know if I could go back and change what happened, I would. But I can’t do that, and I don’t want you doing anything that’s going to rub the past in Della’s face.”

My whole body has gone rigid. “Like what?”

“I know you and Liz . . . hook up sometimes.”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m just hoping she’s not the one you’re thinking of dating throughout this campaign. I don’t think she’s the right choice.”

It doesn’t matter that I’d come to the same conclusion on my drive here. My thoughts and emotions are too tangled where Liz is concerned, and twelve months of dating isn’t going to improve that situation. But anger surges through me the second Connor vocalizes the very thing I was thinking. Slowly, I count backward from five before saying, “I don’t remember asking you.”

“Governor Guy will be in town tomorrow. Sabrina’s already here. There is a good choice. Hell, almost anyone would be a better choice than Liz.”

My whole body tenses. “My sister just gave birth to your child, and you’re seriously going to stand there and be jealous of my relationship with Liz?”

“Lower your voice,” he says.

“Stay out of my business,” I hiss. “She isn’t yours, Connor, and I’ll date her if I want to.”

“You’ll fuck her and you’ll break her heart,” he mutters.

I take a step closer. I look down on most guys, but Connor’s my height and we’re eye to eye. “Say that again.”

He exhales slowly. “Just . . . whatever. But don’t bring her home. That wouldn’t be fair to Della.”

When angry words fill my mouth, I keep my jaw locked shut so they can’t escape. I’ve said my piece to him more than once. Della made her choice. Time to let go and move on. The thing is, when it comes to Liz, I’ve always found letting go to be harder than it should be.

“Thank you for thinking of my sister,” I finally say. “But just because you fucked a girl once doesn’t mean you get to decide if I bring her home.”

* * *

Liz

At home, I face my closed laptop as if I’m afraid it might attack me.

I took the app off my phone, but I know the Something Real messenger client is going to load the minute I start up my computer, and I’m going to be faced with a deluge of messages from him.

Or maybe I won’t. Maybe he hasn’t sent me a single thing since he apologized for bailing on me last night.

My stomach flips and nausea rolls over me. How long have I been convinced that it was Sam I was talking to? I kept telling myself that it was, but now that I’m forced to accept that it wasn’t Sam, I feel . . . violated.

That’s not fair. River never claimed to be Sam. That’s on me. And yet now that I know, I wish I gave heed to all those moments we’d been chatting and I’d grown cold, all the times I’d get that off feeling in my gut. Any time I found myself questioning who my anonymous friend was, I’d remind myself of all the reasons I thought he was Sam. River was looking for an investment; Sam does investment banking. River likes to talk dirty; Sam likes to talk dirty. River has a little brother; Sam has a little brother. River wants to tie me up; Sam likes to tie me up.

But maybe that’s a more common fantasy than I realize. And the other things? A background in finance, a little brother? What an idiot am I? There have to be thousands of guys who fit that description.

Holding my breath, I open my laptop and turn it on. As it does with every startup, the messenger client loads and my missed messages fill my screen.

Riverrat69: I don’t blame you for being pissed. The ball’s in your court now, just know I would have rather been with you last night.

I press my hands to my hot cheeks. How can I tell River what has me so upset? How can I tell Sam?

I shake my head. I can’t. Telling Sam would be suicide. There’s nothing between us and no reason I should hurt him by admitting I went to the cabin to meet someone else.

“But I only went because I thought that someone else was him,” I whisper. God, what a convoluted mess I’ve created.

I place my hands on the keyboard to reply to River. But instead of replying, I scroll back through our message history, to a month ago around the time when things started crossing the friendship line.

Riverrat69: Tell me what turns you on.

Tink24: Kissing. Secret meetings in dark corners. Strong men who pursue what they want but aren’t too proud to ask for permission before taking it. What about you?

Riverrat69: Blondes, beautiful women in short skirts, sassy-mouthed vixens.

Tink24: Oh, so I turn you on?

Riverrat69: Yes. You do. But you already knew that.

Tink24: I hoped. Anything else?

Riverrat69: So much. The curve of a woman’s ass. Hearing her scream my name as I drive into her. The way she stops breathing just before she comes. Your turn.

Tink24: This conversation turns me on. And if the moment is right and I feel safe . . . being tied up.

Riverrat69: I would love to tie you up. I’ve fantasized about it more than once.

It was after that conversation that I’d begun to convince myself Sam was the one I was talking to. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how that all played out. I remembered it as him bringing up bondage first. But it had been me. And wouldn’t most guys play along if a woman said she’d like to be tied up?