Chapter Three
“And what did you tell him?”
I stab my fork into my pasta with a little too much vigor. “I told him it was over. Done. Fini.”
“I assume he didn’t take that very well.”
I drop my fork without taking a bite and look at my aunt, a heavy sigh falling from my lips. “You assume correctly. Naturally, my words went right over his head.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go to work and pretend he didn’t show up and ruin my night out.”
Aunt Leigh nods approvingly. “Make sure you use plenty of concealer. You could carry your f*cking groceries in the bags under your eyes.”
“You know something? Sometimes I wonder how I’m not the most insecure person on the planet.”
“Insecure people are that way because they have people wrapping their asses up in bubble wrap all the time. Honey, if you’d rather me tell you that you look gorgeous and ready to go to work, I will, but next time I do, you’ll be wondering if I’m lying or not.”
I can’t argue that point.
“No? I didn’t think so. What time is your client?”
“Seven.”
She checks her watch. “It’s almost six. You go shower and I’ll clear this away. Your dishwasher works, correct?”
I hold up my hands, showing her my perfectly manicured nails. “Of course it does. Monique would shit a kitten if I turned up with—god forbid—soap on my fingers.”
A smile twitches the corner of my aunt’s mouth. “Just one kitten? She’d shit the litter.”
I giggle into my hand as I head upstairs. This much is true. Monique is Ms. Perfection herself.
I shower quickly, the hot stream of water beating away some of the tension knotting my shoulders, and wrap myself in a fluffy towel. I almost feel like I can breathe easily after that—if it weren’t for the new fear of Aaron popping up everywhere I go.
I tug a black dress from the closet and some red heels to go with it. Red isn’t a color I want to be wearing right now, but Mr. Alexander Carlisle was very specific on how he wants me to dress. And the client always gets what they want.
As long as they’ve paid for it, that is.
I blow dry my long hair in record time and twist it into a sleek updo before stepping into my outfit for the evening. Some of the control I know so well seeps back into me as I roll the tan stockings up my legs and pull the dress down to cover the tops. I feel even more in control of my life as I slide my feet into the red heels and apply my makeup.
That same old rush floods my body. The knowledge of what I have to do—how I have to act, how I’m expected to behave, how I’m expected to speak.
Tonight, at Mr. Carlisle’s request, I’m Kelly York, a woman from a small town just outside Portland. I’m about to graduate from law school, and we met when I interviewed for an open position at his law firm. Of course, he couldn’t hire me because he’s a respectable man who doesn’t mix business with pleasure, and he decided I was better for the pleasure.
And the irony is that he’s hiring an escort.
Very respectable, Mr. Carlisle.
It’s hard not to judge. It’s my job not to, but sometimes I can’t help it. Thankfully I rarely take away my brain-to-mouth filter, so my judgments stay firmly inside my own mind.
“Better,” Aunt Leigh declares, running her eyes over me. “Who’s your client?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Fine. I might just stop by the Southfall later for a drink or two.”
I purse my lips at her. Goddamn woman. “All right, but if Monique finds out…”
“I worked for her for twenty years. You don’t need to tell me to keep it quiet. I’m just nosy.”
I tell her everything, and she nods the whole way through, reminding me to use my upper-class mannerisms she spent hours teaching me when I decided to do this job. Like I need reminding—but I get it.
This is her crazy way of looking out for me.
Our relationship is dysfunctional, like so many of the others in my life, but it works. Like the others do. Well, mostly.
I climb into the cab—five minutes early, much to my annoyance—and lean back in the seat. I take a deep breath when a thought flashes through my mind.
Shit. Alexander Carlisle is one of the top lawyers in Seattle. This is a high-profile event.
What if Aaron’s on the guest list?
“This better be good, Dayton.”
“Do you know who’s on the list tonight?”
“Funnily enough, that’s not something I charge for,” Monique replies dryly.
“F*ck off, Mon. Can you find out?”
“Why?”
“In case Aaron is there. He’s in Seattle. I saw him last night.”
My agent sighs. “I’ll try to find out.”
“Quickly!” I hang up as the cab pulls up outside the hotel. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I remember the last time I was here—and the events that unfolded after that chance meeting.
My instinct tells me to get the cabbie to drive me home, but I hand him his fare and get out instead. Where the f*ck was that instinct six weeks ago?
The same girl is even behind the counter—Rachel, was it? —and recognition flashes in her eyes. “Can I help you, madam?”
“Yes. I’m looking for Mr. Carlisle. It’s Kelly York.”
She nods and picks up the phone. It’s like déjà vu as she requests someone to take me to the private booths in the bar where he’s waiting. As the young guy takes me there, I almost expect to see Aaron when the curtain is opened.
But I don’t. It’s a thirty-something good-looking guy, and he oozes confidence.
“Ms. Lopez,” he greets me in a hushed voice and kisses my hand. “Alexander Carlisle.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carlisle.”
He motions for me to have a seat. “Please, call me Alexander. Can I get you a drink?”
“A white wine would be wonderful. Thank you.”
He orders, and when the waiter disappears, he slides a brown envelope across the table to me. “The fee agreed with your agent.”
“Thank you.” I slip it into the lining of my purse. My drink is delivered, and I wait until we’re alone until I speak again. “Is there anything specific I should know for tonight? I know the general information about our ‘meeting’ and your company from what my agent passed on, but I’d like to make sure we’re on the same page before we go out.”
“Of course. I believe all the necessary information was already given. The only thing would be that, after three months, my parents are under the impression we’re very much in love.” He quirks an eyebrow over a dark eye “Fortunately they live in Nevada now, so it will be easy to convince them.”
I swallow some unwelcome bile. Of course we’d be crazy in love. Why the f*ck wouldn’t we be?
“Of course.” I smile. “When would you like to go out?”
“We can join the party now if you’d like to.”
“Perfect.” The sooner we get there, the sooner I can leave. Three hours of my time is all he booked, and I’d like that over as soon as possible.
I link my arm through his in the elevator. Why hasn’t Monique called yet? She knows not to f*ck about with this stuff. I need to know.
We stop outside a function room thankfully different than the one Aaron had his party, and Alexander smiles at me before opening the door. The room is full, but I spot two familiar heads by the bar.
F*ck.
I step back and take my client with me. “I’m afraid I have a problem, Mr. Carlisle.”
“Alexander, please. What’s the problem?”
What f*cking isn’t these days? “My ex-boyfriend’s parents are at your party. I’m sure you understand that it’s not convenient for me. We broke up only recently.”
“Ah, of course.”
I take the envelope from my purse and discreetly tuck it inside his jacket. “I’m so sorry. I’ll call my agent on the way down, and she’ll send someone else to accompany you. She’ll be here within half an hour. If anyone asks, there’s heavy traffic, which is delaying her. Reception will call up for you.”
“It’s a shame, Ms. Lopez. I was looking forward to an evening with you.”
“And I you. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” I smile and step back into the elevator. My cell buzzes.
“He’s not, but his parents are.”
“Yeah, thanks for the heads-up on that. Luckily I noticed before we went in. You’ll have to send someone else.”
Monique sighs. “Lori can do it. She’ll have to learn her shit quickly. What’s your story?”
I tell her exactly what I just told Alexander.
“Good. I’ll call her now and get her ass down there. And Dayton?”
“Mm?”
“Good call.”
“Thank you.” I smile and hang up. Then I hail a cab and climb in.
What are the chances of that? Thank god for small miracles.
Not that there’s anything wrong with the guy, but I’m not in the mood to be the loved-up girl of some mogul lawyer who represents half the city. He’s probably from the firm that deals with all the Stone stuff.
Of course, now I have nothing to do for the rest of the evening.
Or I can keep a certain businessman off my property.
I throw a few bills at the cab driver and slam the door behind me as I get out, my eyes tracing the silhouette of Aaron Stone sitting on my bench.
“If this happens again, Mr. Stone, I may have to look into taking legal action. Two nights in a row? I hardly imagine your sitting outside my house is a coincidence.”
He looks up, his eyes piercing in the evening darkness. “Back to work, Miss Black?”
“I have a job. As much as I’d love to sit around and feel sorry for myself, I’m afraid I have far more important things to do.” I stroll past him and put my key in the door.
He closes his hand around mine. “Things, or people?”
“I fail to see what business it is of yours.”
“It’s very much my business, as you’re well aware.”
“Perhaps in your opinion. But if it will make you feel better, it’s things, not people.” I turn around. “I’m not back to work fully. Yet.”
“Yet?”
“I have to earn money somehow, and my big spenders aren’t pretty little rich boys who need a date for the night. So yes, yet.”
“Never,” he growls, leaning into me. “You aren’t f*cking another guy, Dayton.”
“That’s not your decision, Aaron. You had your chance to decide that, and you blew it. Now if you’d like to remove yourself from my property, I’d appreciate it.”
His lips touch mine in a scorching, forceful kiss that knocks me backward. I gasp at the sudden touch, and he slides his tongue between my lips. His hands cup my face, holding me against him, and my back is flush against the door. He tastes of the woody whisky he adores, of power and determination and finality.
“Tell me one thing,” he says, his lips brushing across mine with his words. “Has anyone else kissed these lips?” His thumb comes between us and flicks my bottom lip.
Who the f*ck does he think he is asking that question? I’m ready to push him away, to shove him on his ass, but instead, what happens is a whisper of, “F*ck you.”
“Answer the f*cking question, Dayton.”
My chest heaves at the thickness of his voice. I can hear the emotion beneath the demand. “No. They haven’t,” I answer.
His lips crash against mine once more, this time rougher, harsher. I can feel nothing but his palms rough against my cheeks and his lips soft against my own. His tongue sweeping through my mouth and owning it completely. The ball of need building in my lower stomach and sending aches down through my p-ssy.
He kisses me deeply, completely dominating my mouth, possessing me until I’m consumed by him, and for a long moment, I forget why this shouldn’t be happening.
Until he pulls back, his nose resting alongside mine, and I remember again.
I take a deep breath, meeting his eyes as the reality of what just happened settles into a heavy ball in my chest. “You have five seconds to get your ass out of here before I go crazy at you.”
He smirks, igniting a new kind of fury inside me. “Remember that the next time you think what you do is none of my business.” My cheeks feel cold when he drops his hands, and he walks backward, his eyes fixated on me. “Good evening, Dayton.”
He climbs into a waiting black car. I watch, frozen to the spot, as it pulls away. My hand trembles as I turn the key and scramble inside my house. I slam the door shut and lock it—like a few bolts and a chain can keep him away from me.
I need the barrier. I need a ten-foot-high wall.
I lean against the door, my heart thumping and my chest heaving, and slide down to the floor. I can feel the ghost of his lips on mine. I can taste him on my tongue, rich and woody, and the warmth of his body is still threading through mine.
My anger dissipates before I have time to process it. It’s replaced by that hollow, empty hole I thought I’d filled, and tears fill my eyes. I look up at the ceiling as the tears spill over and drip down my cheeks.
F*ck.
***
I run my fingers through my wet hair, my eyes closed. The water beats down on my face in a futile attempt to wash any traces of Aaron Stone from me. If it were that easy, I would have done it a long time ago, but he’s seared into my skin. He’s burned in, like I’m branded by him.
My lips still feel swollen from his forceful kiss, and there’s a light red rash on my chin from the stubble that covers his jaw.
I feel like I’ve spiraled back to where I was when I left Paris. Like I’m back in the dark pit of heartbreak and longing and disbelief. I still want him. I crave his touch whenever I’m alone, and I crave the sound of his voice through the silence.
I want him to fight so I can say no. So I can beat him back and so he can feel even an ounce of the pain I feel whenever his name is mentioned. Whenever I think it. Whenever he turns up in front of me like a little f*cking surprise and drives me to insanity.
It doesn’t matter that it’s been more than twenty-four hours since I found him outside my house. It doesn’t matter that I should be working right now but I can’t because of him.
What matters is that I can still feel him all over me.
I can still feel his breath and his fingers wrapping around mine and everything. I can feel everything.
I step out of the shower and dry off, throwing on some sweatpants and an old tank before heading downstairs. The doorbell goes off as I open the fridge, and I leave it open as I answer the door.
“Hello?”
“Miss Black?” A young girl peers at me over a bunch of flowers.
“Uh…” I look at the extravagant bouquet and back to her. “That’s me.”
“Delivery for you.”
“Who from?”
She shoves the bouquet at me and shrugs. “Doesn’t say. Have a good day!”
I frown and back into the house, kicking the door shut. I don’t need to ask who they’re from. I know.
I set them down on the island in my kitchen and carefully look through the lilies and roses and blossoms and god knows what f*cking else until I find a card.
Tu me manques, Dayton.
“You are missing from me,” I whisper, rubbing my thumb over the scrawled words, and close my eyes.
He said them a thousand times to me when we were in Paris—the first time. Whenever we weren’t together, he’d text me or get the concierge to pass a message on, and it was always the same. I didn’t know what it meant until I finally plucked up the courage to ask him.
“The French don’t say ‘I miss you,’” he whispered. “They say, ‘You are missing from me.’ And that’s true. Whenever we’re apart, I feel half complete. That’s why I tell you, ‘Tu me manques.’”
That was the moment I fell entirely in love with him. Whatever part of me was holding back, that was the moment I really, truly lost my heart to him.
I felt the same. Whenever we weren’t together, I was convinced I was missing a part of myself. Whenever we were together, I felt whole.
Exactly the way I feel now.
I grab my cell, snap a photo, and send it to Liv. My cell rings almost immediately, and I balance it between my ear and shoulder as I pour some juice.
“Holy shit!” she exclaims. “Is that from Aaron?”
“Yep. Just got delivered.”
“He can break my heart any day. They’re f*cking gorgeous.”
“Yes, heartbreak is a real hoot,” I reply dryly.
“Shit. Sorry. Didn’t think.”
Obviously, Liv.
“What are you going to do?”
“With the flowers? Fill my sink with water and put them in it until I find a vase large enough for them.”
Her sigh is heavy and a little pained. “Not about the flowers, a*shole. About the guy.”
“Pretty sure everything I’m considering would be considered illegal.”
“We’re thinking different illegals here, aren’t we?”
“Probably.” No doubt she’s thinking of sexy things. I’m thinking of not-so-sexy things—unless you’re into dead bodies. “But what the f*ck, Liv? Flowers? Who sends flowers?”
“Guys who haven’t forgotten how to romance a girl.”
“I’d rather be romanced in the bedroom, if I’m honest.” I nudge the fridge door closed and stare at the flowers. “They are pretty though.”
“Pretty? They’re freakin’ gorgeous! Seriously, are you letting him grovel?”
“There’s nothing to grovel for.”
“Okay. Not having this conversation. Call me when your head is screwed on properly. I love you. Goodbye.”
My jaw drops and I stare at the phone.
The bitch just hung up on me.