Dirty Little Secret
Автор
Em Jay
Прочтений
925K
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30
What happens when two people who can’t let go of each other are forced to face their darkest secrets?
Bailey is an author haunted by a painful past and trapped in a toxic relationship. Spencer is a reformed bad boy trying to leave his mistakes behind. When their paths cross, the chemistry is undeniable—but neither is ready for the messy, emotional connection that follows.
Caught between desire, betrayal, and their own personal demons, Bailey and Spencer navigate the thin line between love and self-destruction. As they give in to temptation, they must confront the truth about who they really are—and what they want from each other.
Dirty Little Secret is a gripping, emotional story of forbidden love, second chances, and the secrets that can either tear us apart or bring us together. Can love survive when the past is too heavy to forget?
Hailey and Eric
BAILEY
A shiver ran down Bailey’s spine as the cold air crept in. She watched Eric as he dressed, knotting his tie. She pulled the stark white sheets around her brown skin, trying to ward off the chill.
“Are you leaving?” Bailey rested her cheek against her knees, her voice soft and resigned.
Eric adjusted his cufflinks and glanced at his reflection in the mirror before turning his gaze to her.
“Yes, Hailey.”
Bailey didn’t correct him this time for calling her the wrong name. Instead, she pulled the sheets tighter around her in a futile attempt at modesty.
“When will you introduce me to your family, Eric?”
He glanced at her with a smirk playing on his lips, and his tone dripping with condescension.
“Soon, sweetheart. Very soon.”
Bailey let out a sigh, heavy with sadness.
He’d been promising that for two years.
“Later, Hailey!” he called out, just as the door closed behind him.
“It’s Bailey!” Her voice faded as he closed the door on her.
Her eyes stung as she put her face between her knees and squeezed them shut.
She heaved a heavy sigh and rose from the bed, scrubbing her skin until it felt raw. She was his dirty little secret. And she felt dirty.
After cleaning up and changing, Bailey decided she needed some fresh air. Like most days, she took the stairs, keeping her gaze low as she passed through the lobby.
She knew what she would see if she looked up: pity, disgust, disappointment.
Could she really blame them? They had watched her repeat this pattern for two years. She was even disappointed in herself.
Her teachers used to tell her:
You have so much potential, Bailey.
You’re a bright kid with a promising future.
You can do anything you set your mind to.
And she had. She’d become wealthy doing what she loved—writing. She’d made a name for herself. She’d won awards and had had buildings named after her.
But these people knew how she let herself be treated.
That fact overshadowed all her accomplishments. Any success was twisted into a mockery.
The biting New York air brought her back to reality. Her nose turned red and goosebumps prickled her skin, but the cold air filled her lungs. It was cleansing.
Bailey walked the streets, engaging in something she had loved to do since she was a child—people-watching. She guessed this was part of why she’d become a talented writer.
Constantly observing other people allowed her to emulate real life on the page.
As a child, she would spend hours at her window, watching the people on the streets. She would give them names and create stories for them. She would make them fall in love and take them on adventures they would never know they had.
Some of those adventures were later published, making her a bestselling author.
Due to the cold, the streets were mostly empty. People huddled in shops. Starbucks was packed, as was another nearby café.
One man caught her eye on her way home. He was tall and muscular, and Bailey could see some tribal tattoos peeking above his shirt collar.
He stood in front of an old café, looking frustrated. His phone was pressed to his ear, and he was cursing loudly.
Apparently, fucking Vince had lost something, and this man was ready to shove some things in some very uncomfortable places.
She laughed to herself. He was certainly expressive. As he ranted on the phone, his arms moved in exaggerated gestures that made his tattoos come alive.
Suddenly, he stopped talking and looked up—right at her. He looked at her with a sort of cool curiosity, his lips parting slightly.
Tattoos snaked up his neck, disappearing under his leather jacket.
She gasped, quickly looking down and quickening her pace.
With each step she took, she could feel his smirk and his gaze burning into her back.
Deciding to ignore it, she climbed the three flights of stairs to her apartment.
Bailey walked as much as she could. As a writer, she spent most of her time in her comfortable chair, munching on “inspirational” junk food.
Bailey locked her door behind her, collapsing onto her couch.
Writer’s block. She had writer’s block. She couldn’t afford writer’s block; she was a writer. She groaned, her mind roving over her current circumstances.
Bailey stumbled to the fridge, hoping to find something delicious to ease her stress, but instead found empty shelves.
She hadn’t been to the grocery store lately because it seemed to be bad luck. Every time she went, her agent either called her or ambushed her on a nearby street. NYC was a huge city, so Bailey was baffled by how her agent managed to run into her so often.
Sighing, Bailey pondered her next move. Just as she was about to give up and take a nap, her phone rang.
It was her mother. Oh, great. Bailey groaned internally.
“Hello?”
“Darling,” her mother drawled.
Bailey could feel the disapproval in her mother’s tone. What else was new?
“Yes, Mother?”
“Have you been sitting on your couch so long that you’ve forgotten what day it is?”
Bailey winced at the jab. Before she could respond, her mother continued.
“I assume so. It’s Friday. Your brother and sisters have been waiting for you.”
Bailey clenched her teeth, holding back a groan.
“I’m not going to be able to—”
“We’ll see you at six.”
The line clicked. Bailey pulled the phone back, staring at the end call screen.
With a frustrated groan, she flung her phone to the other end of the couch and dropped her head back against the cushion with a thud.
Her mother, Portia Williams, had always been rich in mind—though not so much in knowledge. She was just a snob. She had an attitude about her that just screamed, I’m better than you. Why are you still breathing my air?
Naturally, she only bred the best. Expected the best. Only accepted the best. Only tolerated the best.
Portia Williams did not understand that not everyone can be the best.
But Bailey had lived with her mother for most of her life. By now, she knew that when her mother said best, she meant perfect.
Bailey wasn’t perfect. She was too fat, too short, too smart, and too awkward. Too Bailey.
“No one can be perfect,” Bailey said to herself as she applied makeup she hated.
“No one is perfect,” she muttered, pulling on ridiculously high heels.
“You can be perfectly imperfect, but it’s perfectly impossible to be perfect,” she recited, slipping into a dress.
Even though she repeated these words—the same words she’d been repeating since third grade—she still did everything she could to be her mother’s version of perfect.
Of course, she failed.
“Bailey, darling, don’t you know that dress is too tight for your…figure?” These were her mother’s opening words.
As Bailey stepped into the house she had bought for her family, she felt the urge to turn around and run.
Lorelei, her sister, snickered, acting more like a five-year-old than a twenty-five-year-old.
The dining room was the first space beyond the entryway, naturally drawing attention as soon as one stepped inside. It was a display of perfection and a stage for her family to perform on. Her brother, two sisters, and her parents were all there.
Even the number of family members was perfectly even. She briefly wondered what might have happened if they’d had one more child.
“Princess!” Her father stood up and pulled her into a tight hug.
Bailey hugged him back and breathed in the familiar scent of his bakery.
“Hey, sis!” Peter, her brother, greeted her with a smile and a hug.
“You’re taller than me now!” She looked up at her younger brother in surprise.
“Yeah. I grew this summer.” His voice was deep. Peter was sixteen now. “But you weren’t here, so…”
She ruffled his hair and gave him a sad smile.
“I know. I’m sorry, Pete.”
I’m sorry, but I’m not coming back.
“Sis!” Her youngest sister, Lia, was only six. She ran up to Bailey and hugged her tightly. Lia had jeans in her hands and waved them at Bailey.
“Save me from dresses, Bailey. She won’t stop putting me in dresses.”
Bailey laughed and kissed her sister’s forehead. “I wish I could.”
Lia fell back in line, returning the room to its tense atmosphere.
Lorelei and her mother stood there, their expressions etched with disapproval and smugness.
Bailey bit her lip and closed her eyes, holding back tears. Her mother wanted her to fail just so she could laugh and say, “I told you so.”
“Are we eating or what?” Peter asked, and Bailey shot him a grateful look.
This is about to get a whole lot worse.
Bailey poked at her salad with her fork. She hated salad. Everyone else was enjoying meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, and rolls.
“You need to watch your figure,” her mother had said when she placed the salad in front of Bailey.
“What are you wearing?” Lorelei asked with disgust in her tone.
“A dress,” Bailey replied softly, trying not to give Lorelei any ammunition.
“It’s so last season,” Lorelei sneered. “I’m wearing Prada. It’s trending. Everyone’s wearing it. Do you live under a rock or something?”
Bailey pushed a piece of wilted lettuce around on her plate, trying not to engage.
“That I bought,” Bailey mumbled into her plate.
She hadn’t spoken quietly enough. Lorelei whipped around, her face pinched with anger. Everyone but her mother snickered.
“Mother,” Lorelei whined, her eyes filling with fake tears.
Great. Here come the waterworks.
“Why are you so jealous of your sister?” her mother scolded. “Is it because she’s skinnier? More beautiful?”
“Mother!”
“Portia!”
Bailey ignored Peter and her father’s protests, knowing they’d die out under her mother’s withering glare.
“I’m tired of her picking on my Lorelei!” Mother shot back.
Bailey zoned out, doing her best to distance herself from the situation. She tried to put herself in the lives of her novel’s characters instead.
What’s Cynthia doing right now? She thought about it and then internally snorted. Nothing. Thanks to writer’s block, Cynthia is currently frozen mid-argument with her husband.
Damn. I’m failing at this too.
Failure. It felt like an iron fist gripping her throat, and her stomach churned as if it were being whisked.
“Portia, she is our daughter!”
“I don’t care.”
“Bailey won’t stand for this forever, y’know,” Peter drawled, his baleful glare directed at his mother and sister.
Peter continued, “Eventually, she’s gonna snatch it all—her house and her money—from under your manicured feet, and I’m going to laugh.”
Portia, Lorelei, and her father turned pale.
Bailey stood and looked over the faces of everyone at the table. She flashed her siblings a grateful smile.
“I think it’s time I go home. I have…writing to do.”
***
Eric was leaning against the doorway when Bailey arrived at her apartment.
“Hey, where the hell were you? We were supposed to be meeting tonight.”
She furrowed her brow. “I had dinner at my family’s place; didn’t you get my message?”
“Yeah, but you had plans with me,” he stressed as she fumbled for her keys.
Why was he so anxious to get inside?
He pressed against her back, his hands around her hips.
“I was waiting for you,” he murmured.
Bailey rolled her eyes, stepping away from the door.
“That’s what this is about?”
Although she knew the answer—sex. That’s what it was always about, wasn’t it?
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Go home, Eric.”
Bailey sighed, her body limp from exhaustion. She’d had a hard enough time with family, and now this? It was too much.
“No, you told me we were hanging out, so open the door. I don’t have time for your dramatics!”
Bailey frowned, putting her purse on her shoulder. “Dramatics? Are you serious?”
“Hailey, open the damn door and let me—”
Bailey’s eyes widened as Eric was swallowed up by a large but somewhat familiar shadow. The smell of cologne and smoke swaddled the pair.
Eric’s voice stopped dead as he craned his neck to see the imposing man glaring down at him.
A gasp escaped Bailey’s lips. It was him. The guy from the coffee shop. What was he doing here?
“Is there a problem?” he asked calmly, his voice echoing in the hallway.
Eric shook his head. “No, I was just—I was just—”
The man cocked his head, waiting, his arms flexing as he did.
“Leaving? It sounded like you were just leaving,” the imposing man said.
Eric scrambled away, leaving Bailey and the strange man. He extended his hand. Bailey glanced at it, the steadiness of it.
“Spencer. I live across the hall from you. What’s your name?”
She took it and smiled. “Bailey. Thanks for the…” She motioned to where Eric had been, her skin heating. What a way to meet someone, especially someone who looked like him.
Spencer scoffed before smiling brightly. “What a piece of shit. If he comes back, just knock on my door.”
Bailey grinned. “I will.”
