“I thought you didn’t like me calling you Christian.”
The pieces of the puzzle had clicked together. The way he’d looked at me when we’d first tumbled into bed together. When I’d called him by his new name and he’d shriveled back.
Christian shook his head. “That was before you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That I’m reborn.”
That was when Christian Miller kissed me again.
And this time, I knew, no one was going to take him away from me.
EPILOGUE
CHRISTIAN
Six Months Later
“Not too shabby for an office.” Riggs pokes at his lower lip, nodding to himself as he strolls along the reception area of Miller, Hatter & Co., my brand-new law firm. “Not worth the money you dropped on the interior designer, but not as soul crushing as other offices I’ve been to.”
“Thanks for the endorsement. Your opinion means a lot. Now get the hell out.” I stick my loafer between the elevator doors to ensure it doesn’t leave without him and Arsène. I check my Patek Philippe again. Five past three. She should be here any minute now.
“What’s the rush, Miller? Is Miss Has Your Balls in a Vise Grip coming over?” Arsène runs his hand over the sleek black marble of the reception counter.
It’s about to be Mrs. Has Your Balls in a Vise Grip if I have my way.
Weeks after resigning from Cromwell & Traurig, I ran into Jason Hatter and found out he was looking for a way out of his own firm too. We quickly realized we could establish a successful partnership, combining both our portfolios. That’s how Miller, Hatter & Co. was founded.
“Out,” I order. “Both of you. Before I wipe the floor with your asses.”
“Big deal. Your floor is cleaner than Hermione Granger’s rap sheet. First.” Riggs stops in front of the crème wall, checking each hanging picture in the waiting area individually, like his connection to art includes more than rolling a few curators between his bedsheets every now and then. “Tell us why you’re sweating like a whore in a confession booth.”
“I’m not sweating.” I scowl.
“You are, actually,” Arsène states before making a gagging sound. “You’re going to propose, aren’t you?”
Unable to deal with my friends’ eighth-grade mentality any longer, I saunter toward them, grab each friend by the ear, and drag them to the elevator.
“Kinky,” Riggs hisses, planting the heels of his Blundstones on the floor just to make things difficult. “Now talk dirty to the ear you’re about to rip out of my head. I like it rough.”
Arsène flicks my hand away but surrenders willingly, citing that he doesn’t want to be here when I decorate my new carpets with semen once my girlfriend arrives. I dump them in the elevator and brush my palms clean when the chime above my head indicates they are on their way down.
Three minutes later, Arya pops out of the second elevator. She’s wearing a smart business suit. Her crazy hair is in a haphazard bun. She stops in front of me, taking it all in, her eyes big and green and unnerving.
“Howdy, partner.” Her smile is slow, mischievous, and uniquely hers. She reminds me of the twelve-year-old girl I couldn’t look away from.
“Ms. Roth.” I tuck a flyaway behind her ear, pressing a soft kiss on her nose. I step back. “What do you think about my new crib?”
“It’s beautiful.” She lights up, giving herself a mini tour. We’ve already started operating, but next week, we’re opening the office. We’ll have two receptionists, five paralegals, and several new associates coming in. It’s going to be a lot of work, but it’s going to be worth it. “As the spokeswoman for Brand Brigade, we’re excited you chose to work with us.”
As the spokesperson for my heart, I’m hoping you’re not going to stomp on it in a second.
Arya leans against the reception desk, splaying her hands on it. “Have Cromwell and Traurig calmed down yet?”
“Not even remotely.” I make my way toward her, pushing my hands into my front pockets. “They’re still dragging my name through the mud all over town.”
“Good.” Arya smiles brightly. “I do love you a bit dirty.”
I chuckle, motioning to my corner office. “Come on. I want to show you the best part of the office.”
I take her hand in mine and lead her to the room that has taken the most time to design. To the interior designer’s credit, all she had to work with was a few frames from a movie. No more. I push the wooden door open, and Arya gasps.
“It’s not contemporary.” I lower my head to her neck from behind, feathering a kiss over it while my hands find her waist. She shivers into me, inspecting the vast room, a replica of the library from the book and the movie she loves so much.
The mahogany shelves. The ladder. The books. The Persian carpet. The books. The vintage lamp. The books.
The books.
The books.
“Christian . . .” Christian. That’s what she calls me now. Embracing the identity I’ve chosen for myself. Nicky isn’t dead. But I’m no longer the helpless boy she knew. Now, I can protect her. And myself. I intend to do both. “This is . . . breathtaking.”
“It’s yours.”
She turns around, looking at me curiously. “What do you mean?”
And this time, I show her.
I press her against the nearest bookshelf, and two decades later, at thirty-three, I do what fourteen-year-old Nicky couldn’t. I kiss her long and hard, starting from the base of her throat, working my way up, lacing my fingers through hers. She writhes against me, mumbling my name. I can feel her unknotting against me, one thread after another. We both know no one can walk in on us. No one can stop us.
“Are we . . . are we . . . ?” Arya’s pants come in short breaths as my tongue fills her mouth possessively. “Are we reenacting . . . ?”