“Well, you made her night.”
“It’s really good,” I say, our heated conversation over. “I was talking to her earlier. She told me some interesting things.”
“Things you took note of?” Nolan prods as he takes a taste of his own pasta.
“Yes,” I say, unwilling to give him any details.
“Things you won’t discuss with me until tomorrow?”
“If I stay.”
“You’re staying,” he says. “I already know you want to, so let’s get past that. Forget about tomorrow for now, we’ll do it your way. I will hire you, we will sign a contract for your consultation services, and then we’ll discuss it. But tonight—I’m sorry, Ivy. Tonight, we’re gonna do it my way.”
I take a sip my wine, considering my options. Would it be so bad to have this very experienced man as my first?
I mean, beyond my father hating him. My father can’t ever know anything about Nolan Delaney. No way. And beyond the fact that Nolan might catch on to my secret and put a stop to it, thereby humiliating me as I beg him to keep going, even though I insisted we were not going to have sex tonight.
If I could control those two variables, then would it be so bad?
“I would die to be a mind reader right now.” Nolan is smiling at me, his expression nothing but cocky. Nothing but ego and self-assurance.
Nothing but the power he knows he has.
To render women powerless against his charming advances.
He knows I want him. Hell, I’m sure every woman he meets wants him.
I have never felt desirable. I have never felt wanted, not like this. I have never known the touch of a man and what that touch might mean. And I have never made a man want me so badly, I knew, no matter what I did or said, he’d never want to walk away. No transgression would be big enough for him to say no.
I can imagine Mr. Romantic being one transgression after another. And I can imagine all the hearts he’s broken in the process. I can imagine all the ways in which he walks out. All the ways in which he is begged to stay.
“I would die to have your confidence right now,” I say back.
And then he frowns.
Chapter Thirteen - Nolan
I frown. Thinking about that statement for a moment.
But then she laughs. “I mean, holy hell. You are so full of yourself, Mr. Delaney, it’s like ego is your superpower. Your picture is the definition of narcissist in college psychology text books. You’re the cover model for self-help books that tell people to believe in themselves.”
Is she insulting me? I can’t tell. “I wrote a self-help book once.”
“I’m not surprised. Was it called How to Make a Woman Defenseless?”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you implying something?”
Ivy shrugs. “Just curious.”
“It’s called Rising Above. Maybe you don’t know this, but Maclean Callister has done some pretty significant things since our days at Brown. He inspired me”—I eye her, gauge her reaction—“to rise above the bullshit. And so I wrote that book.”
“Did you publish it?”
“No. The title is ironic. And my lawyers thought it would ruin my chances of building up the resort and garnering investors.”
“So it’s not about rising above?”
“No.”
She waits for me to continue, but I don’t. Fuck it. If she wants to be nasty, I can play.
“It’s about taking the low road?”
“Maybe.”
“And that’s why you’re the most infamous of them all?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“You sure knew what to think a moment ago.”
“I guess that was before I saw something real.”
I lean even farther back in my chair, studying her. She really looks the college-prep boarding school part. I know. I’ve seen enough of those girls. Hell, I was part of that world myself. But I’m not now.
Ivy Rockwell looks like she never left that world. She looks as protected, and secluded, and every bit as innocent as I imagined, regardless of her proclamation a few minutes ago.
“I told you, this is the real me. All of it. So don’t fool yourself, Ivy. You were right about me.”
“So why admit it before you get what you want?”
I shrug. “Maybe I’ve already lost interest in you.”
“Why? Not that I’m interested in you. But why? It’s like one second you’re into it, and then…” She realizes. She knows. She’s got me. “You’re still sensitive about it, aren’t you? Behind that facade of bravado, you’re still pissed off.”
“Wouldn’t you be? If you were accused of something you didn’t do?”
“I think I probably would’ve handled it differently. Gotten better advice.”
“How so?”
“Well, you guys all lawyered up. Refused to talk. That’s what they said anyway.”
“Is that what they said? I really wouldn’t know. I didn’t watch TV for five years after the charges were filed. You don’t know what it’s like. You have no idea what it’s like.”
“But if you’re innocent—”
“Then I have nothing to hide? Do you really believe that? Doesn’t everyone have something to hide? Well”—I laugh, shake off the anger—“it would’ve been very stupid to talk. That was the best advice I ever got. Just shut the fuck up, Match said. We were all there, fucking bewildered. No idea what was happening. No idea we’d be arrested within a week. No idea that every asshole in the country would have an opinion about our personalities, our pasts, our habits. Our guilt.”
“The Misters.”
“Right,” I say. “Do you know why they call me Mr. Romantic?”
“Claudette said it was ironic. Like your book title.”