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“You already asked that. But no, I’m very much not shitting you.”
“That involves a double-shitting comment for sure. Maybe even a triple.”
“At the very least, a double fuck,” I said on a sigh.
“They’re even more ‘old money’ rich than my grandparents,” she added with a laugh. “But why’s a billionaire in the military? That’s wild.”
I stirred the noodles, then reached for my glass, trying to push aside the very vivid thoughts I’d had about a married man. The guy had been the star of every single fantasy of mine after he’d saved my life. He’d unknowingly provided me with heaps and heaps of oxytocin over the last month.
The image of him hadn’t been crystal clear in my fantasies because I’d only had a shot of him completely unmasked for all of five seconds, but now I knew exactly what he looked like to a T.
Midnight-black hair. Eyes the color of espresso. A bladed jawline with a strong, defined chin. Golden tan skin despite it being winter. And a rock-hard body he couldn’t hide beneath the starched white dress shirt and black slacks he’d worn for the party. He’d towered over me even in heels, so he was at least six foot two or taller.
God, he was hotter in person than how I’d pictured him in my head. And real-life guys were never as good as fantasy ones.
Throw in that hint of a Southern drawl I heard from him a time or two while we’d talked, and . . .
“I’m going to hell. It’s as simple as that.” I finished my wine and refilled my glass, which wasn’t the best idea, but I was on the verge of panicking. Because seriously—I’d used my vibrator to get off to thoughts of Rebecca’s husband, and I just . . .
“You didn’t know.” Sierra slapped her hand over my shoulder, her green eyes laser-focused on mine. “It’s not like you’ve thought about him that way since you found out, right? You’re Miss Goody-Goody, and I mean that in the best possible way.” She paused, a smirk settling on her lips. “Thinking about him after the fact would be a ‘me’ thing to do. Your moral compass is straight, mine is wicked fucking crooked,” she added, her Bostonian accent cutting through her observation.
“I’ve tried so hard not to be crooked.” My stomach turned. Full-on somersault action. “Every time I close my eyes, I try to have someone else fill his place. I even created a little mantra to remind myself he’s off-limits for my fantasies, but his face keeps popping into my head no matter how much I beg my brain not to let it happen and?—”
“Girl, calm down. You’re only human. I mean, I was beginning to think you weren’t, so . . .” She smirked, but when I didn’t smile back, she set aside her glass and took mine as well. “The man saved your life. He’s like a superhero. And superheroes aren’t supposed to exist outside fiction, but in your case, he does.” When it was clear to my bestie that she wasn’t convincing me of anything yet, she kept at it. “What happened to you is like when hostages fall for their kidnapper and fixate on them. I think there’s a name for it.”
“Hostage and kidnapper?” This wasn’t helping, and I needed my wine back.
“And he’s older. Mature. A badass. Plenty of reasons to keep him in your head for ‘self-care’ when needed. Just pretend he’s that rugged hero, Dom, and you don’t know who he is in real life.”
“He’s Rebecca’s husband.” I emphasized that last word, trying to remind her of how crucially important that key piece of information was. “I would never think about your boyfriend like that. Ugh. That’d be gross.”
“First of all, I don’t have a boyfriend.” She handed my wine back and picked up hers as well. “Secondly, if I had a hot boyfriend, I wouldn’t mind if other women eye-fucked him. And third, you barely know Rebecca. She’s a family friend, sure. But not your friend.”
I stirred the macaroni in a daze, sipping my wine.
“But I know you, and you’ll feel guilty if you keep thinking about Mr. Billionaire Hero, so we need to find a new guy for you.”
“Imagine what my mom would say if she knew I’d been lusting after a married man.” The horrible pit in my stomach grew from a seed to an orange in the space of a second. “She’d say I was as bad as Dad.”
“Your dad cheated on her while he was married, and he still became Speaker of the House.”
Nice recap. Kill me now.
“You didn’t cheat or do anything wrong. Did Carter flirt with you at any point during the rescue or when you met him at the party?”
“No, which makes him that much . . . just more. He’s a good guy, and you should’ve seen the way he looked at his wife. It was sweet. And I’m happy for them both. I just hate myself for wanting him before the party and?—”
“For wishing he was single so you could jump his bones?”
I set the glass and spoon down, then slammed my palms on the counter so I could process that horrible truth. “He protected me against that asshole congressman at the party, too. I thought he might throw the guy from the rooftop terrace where we’d been talking if Craig Paulsen so much as tried to reach for me.”
“Wait. Hold up.” She gripped my forearm, urging me to face her. “You were with this man on a rooftop terrace?”
“In the snow with the Manhattan skyline around us. A flipping fairy-tale setting.” I pouted, knowing I was being ridiculous even as I recounted the memory. “And yeah, I wanted to cry when I found out he was Rebecca’s husband because part of my fantasies revolved around meeting him again under different circumstances one day, and we’d have some perfect moment and kiss.” Ugh, I hated myself. “You’re probably right. Hostage-rescuer not hostage-kidnapper infatuation, though.”
“That’s all it is.” She gently squeezed my forearm. “I’ll lend you my celebrity crush to fantasize about instead.”
“Celebrities do nothing for me, and you know it.”
