Okay, fine, two slipups.
First—I googled Arya. She was the director and founder of Brand Brigade, along with Jillian Bazin. Had gone to Columbia University cum laude, participated as a consultant in several political campaigns, and frequented charity events with Daddy dearest. Suppose they were two peas in a messed-up pod, running over everyone on their way to their next target. There were a few photos of her too. Of the stunning woman who’d made me swear off green-eyed brunettes for life.
The second slipup happened in the shower, while I pressed my forehead against the tiles, closing my eyes and letting the hot needles of water wash the day away. Looking down, I found myself hard as a stone. My cock was engorged, begging for release.
Impulse control. Remember you hate her.
But what my brain knew very well, my idiot body refused to accept. Every time I thought about Arya in that black dress and those pearls, my cock tapped against my abs to draw attention. Excuse me, sir, but I’d like to be relieved. I could call Claire and have her take care of the problem, but Claire wouldn’t do.
This was when I started making excuses for my cock, which was never a good place to be in.
As with everything, I presented myself with astute arguments.
What is one jerk-off, in the grand scheme of life?
I still loathed Arya Roth. I was still going to take her and her father down, ruin her perfectly constructed universe. The plan hadn’t changed.
Better get it out of my system now than with her.
I couldn’t have her. She was off limits. Caving in to temptation in the shower was far better than yielding to it in the Mandarin, going through an entire box of condoms while screwing my entire lawsuit in the process.
She’d never know.
My favorite out of the three.
Arya would never guess the man she’d seen today was the kid who’d kissed her with trembling lips. Who used to count up the days each September until next summer break. Who would sneak into Duane Reade to sniff the shampoo she used when missing her had become too much.
I grabbed my dick, my palm moving up and down. I closed my eyes, squeezing it harder, imagining my fingers running up her thighs, flipping her dress up, pressing her against my office desk, flattening her back over a pile of documents and my laptop . . .
A low snarl ripped from my mouth. I didn’t even get to the part where I was inside her before my hand was coated with warm, sticky release.
I staggered backward, turning off the faucet and pushing the glass door open. I wrapped a towel around my waist and walked over to the mirror, leaning against the vanity, scowling at myself.
You fool. I shook my head. She’s already dug her way deep inside your veins.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ARYA
Present
There was a medical term for what I was being right now.
Pathetic.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t medical, but it sure as hell was the current situation I was dealing with.
Though I didn’t appear that way, sitting next to Dad at the pretrial hearing. I looked presentable in a gray wool dress and high heels, my hair pinned into a french twist. But I felt like a fool, my heart twirling in my chest, because I knew he would be here.
Silver-spooned princess.
I was starting to imagine things now too.
It was bad enough Christian had been at the Brewtherhood the other day. What were the chances that the place Jilly and I had wanted to try for so long was his hole-in-the-wall? Now I had to watch as he destroyed the only real family I had left.
I squeezed Dad’s damp hand. He’d aged a decade in a month. Ever since news about the lawsuit had broken, he’d been hardly sleeping or eating. Last week, I’d taken him to a psychiatrist. She’d prescribed him Ambien and another pill that was supposed to raise his serotonin levels. So far neither had helped.
“Hey. Don’t worry. Terrance and Louie are the best in the business.” I brushed the back of his hand. He turned to look at me, red eyed.
“The second best in the business. Amanda hiring Miller makes no sense. I heard he’s not even accepting new clients.”
“He saw a huge case and took it.” I scanned the room. I’d never been in a courtroom before, so I had nothing to compare this one to, but the Daniel Patrick Moynihan Courthouse struck me as swanky. Downright theatrical, even. Red velvet curtains with gold tassels; never-ending, spiraling marble stairways; mahogany stands; and church-like pews that would be filled to the brim with journalists, photographers, and courthouse staff as soon as the actual trial began. For now, it was just the judge, the defendant, the plaintiff, and their teams.
I felt Christian Miller before I saw him. The back of my neck prickled with a hot sensation, and my whole body came alive, tingly everywhere. My hand quivered inside Dad’s. Guilt washed over me.
“I haven’t done anything wrong. Maybe a joke here and there—nothing sexual.” Dad stared down at our entwined hands. “With Amanda. It’s wrong to make an example out of me. I want this to be over, Arya.”
“It will be, soon.”
“Thank God I have you, sweetheart. Your mother is—”
“Useless?” I cut into his words. “I know.”
Christian, Amanda, and Claire appeared in my periphery. I didn’t dare look at him, but I saw the way he carried himself: sharklike, wry, and unruffled. His hair was freshly cut, his dark suit pressed, his tie a shade darker than his blue eyes. He sucked the attention out of everything else in the room.
Judge Lopez’s eyes lit when he saw Christian. It was obvious they knew each other.
“Saw you on the golf course this weekend, Counselor. Did Jack Nicklaus give you private lessons?”
“Your Honor, not to be humble, but I played against Traurig. You’ll see better swings at a school’s playground.”