“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, hating the sudden tightness in my chest that those words bring. The knowing that this whole tour is basically over. The waking up to her every morning and sliding in beside her every night is done. The seeing things through a different pair of eyes—ones that look at everything as fresh and new and exciting—is over.
This weird, new normal I’ve gotten used to will be over.
“She’s good at what she does. At being who she is.” Robert looks down to the bottom of his drink for a beat before looking back up. “You know as well as I do that she’s going to be snatched up quicker than you think. How are you going to handle being apart from her?”
I grit my teeth because that’s all I’ve been thinking about the past couple of days . . . being apart from her.
I swear to God it’s like he knows this has been all fake, and is baiting me with each of his questions.
I take my time and look around the bar before I answer. “It took this long to find her . . . if it’s meant to be, mate, then we’ll see our way through anything.”
“True, but let me give you a little bit of advice”—he leans in a little closer—“if you don’t want to let her go and are considering keeping her on, I suggest you have a contract drafted for her to sign sooner or later.”
“If I plan on keeping her?” I ask through a chuckle.
“For SoulM8, of course.” He laughs.
“Everyone loves her, why wouldn’t I keep her?”
“Because her contract was for the tour and that’s it. Remember how adamant you were that we only hire for the tour and nothing further in case it just didn’t work out?”
I nod pensively. “Has this whole thing—working together when you’re dating—been that rough on you that you’re considering not hiring her again?” he asks when I scrub my hand over my jaw and stare at my drink instead of answering.
How do I explain that these past two months have been so much more than just that—dating and working? It’s been being forced to see things through a whole different set of eyes. Ones unjaded and willing to see the good in everyone, even assholes like me.
“No—I—It’s definitely been a learning experience.”
His smile is slow and even. “Isn’t that what life’s all about?”
We part ways a little bit later, him to go meddle in other business affairs that he has going and me to work. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t concentrate for shit.
My mind keeps going back to where it’s been way too much this past week: Harlow.
I pick up my phone and dial.
“Hey!”
Christ, just her voice does it to me.
Every.
Single.
Time.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“It’s been—I can’t even put into words what today has been like.”
“That good, huh?”
“Yes. I’m just—it’s just—thank you. Today was because of you. All of the tips, all of the insight, all of the contacts, it was all because of you.”
“I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
And see you, and kiss you, I mentally add.
“You’re never going to be able to shut me up.” She laughs and the sounds of the city—a horn blowing, the cursing of someone, a passing siren—filter in through the background.
“I may have a few ways that I can,” I murmur and lean back on my stool at the bar. A woman across the way catches my eye and smiles. I nod and then turn in my chair some, not interested.
“Is that so?”
“Dinner with me tonight?”
“I’d love that.”
My penthouse is quiet when I enter. I set my keys on table in the foyer and am about to jokingly call out, “Honey, I’m home,” when I see her.
The words die on my lips.
She’s standing at the wall of windows with a stunning night skyline in the background, but all I see is her.
The curve of her neck. The slope of her shoulders. The swell of her hips.
Every part of me aches to touch her and yet I feel like I can’t move. Like I can’t breathe. The sight of her here in my place, in my home, makes me feel things I’ve always sworn weren’t real.
Things I’m not quite sure I trust myself to believe.
MANHATTAN STRETCHES OUT FOR MILES before me. The silhouette of the Freedom Tower is on the right, the Empire State Building on the left, and below is the hustle and bustle of a city that never seems to slow down.
Like a little kid, I press my face to the window and take it all in. The constant push of taxis through the streets. The muted lights of the food vendors on the corners. The honking of horns that filter up every now and again to remind me this is real. That I’m here and that today actually happened.
I hear Zane when he comes in—the toss of his keys, his relieved sigh after a long day, the sound of his shoes starting and then stopping on the hardwood floor—but I don’t turn around. I’m still in denial about what’s going to happen in three days’ time.
The weight of his stare only heightens my anticipation to see him again, but there’s something about the moment, about the surge of emotions flooding through me, that has me waiting for him to make the first move. That has me wanting him to set the tone for tonight.
Business or pleasure.
We’re in his house. How is he going to play this?
My breath hitches when his lips press ever so softly to the slope of my shoulder and stay there. The simple touch is so intimate yet arousing that I close my eyes and just memorize the feel of it.