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“It’s old. It has a few scratches,” I allow. “A few cracks in the screen.”
Alistair guffaws. “A few cracks? I got a glass splinter in my finger when I was trying to locate your next-of-kin.”
“You’re exaggerating,” I say, but I’m also laughing.
“I am not. Anyway, no pressure. The new one is yours if you want it.”
I make a snap decision to not be a pain in the ass. “I want it,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Good. Now I can call you without having to worry that you’ll slice yourself open just by answering.”
“Pssh,” I reply while admiring the new mobile. “Drama queen.”
“I’ll show you drama,” he warns. “What are you doing tonight?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Guess I’ll be here, waiting for you, like a good prostitute. I mean pet. I mean … mistress.”
He sighs in a very sexy way. “In that case, I guess I’ll have to bring my A-game.”
“I’ve seen your A-game already,” I reply, body tingling in anticipation.
Alsitair’s eyes glint in a way that makes me want to demand his “A-game” right here and now. He smirks. “No, you haven’t.”
Chapter 13
Four and a Half Minutes
After Alistair leaves for the office, I blast Taylor Swift and dance around the penthouse. Of course I do. I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere asks her to stay for the week. This is going to be fun.
Do I still have misgivings? Of course I do. I’m not that naïve. But also—fuck it! What’s a week in the grand scheme of things? I have loads of weeks ahead—the rest of my life—to be responsible, climate-friendly, and have disappointing sex.
This week is an anomaly. A gift from the universe.
Maybe even a much-wanted gift that I never thought I needed, like the new iPhone which is not only beautiful to behold , but doing a brilliant job of playing Swift.
The doorbell rings. That must be room service. I turn down the music and skip to open it, hoping for croissants and coffee. I’m already getting way too used to this. Breakfast at home is usually a very ordinary slice of toast. Dry toast, because nut butters are terrible for the environment and real butter is worse. Margarine is a sin on all levels. I hate jam—especially strawberry jam—because of a preschool trauma, so on most days, it’s dry toast gulped down with hot tea.
When I open the door, there are no baked goods, and no coffee.
“Ma’am,” says the security guard who handed me the box earlier.
“Hi!” I wish he were wearing a name tag. He was the same guy from the night before.
“If you are still planning on attending your session today, we’ll need to leave in five minutes to be on time.”
What now? “My session?”
But before he answers, it clicks. Yoga!
“Shit!” I exclaim, wide-eyed, searching for a clock on the wall and finding it. Shit, shit, shit. “I’ll never make it!” Serves me right for dancing and prancing around the penthouse like a loon. Swift is still belting it out.
“Ma’am,” he says again, calm as a cucumber. “You’ll make it.”
“Right,” I say. “Five minutes.”
“Four and a half,” he says.
I scramble to yank the labels off the new leggings and top that Alistair ordered for me and jump into them. There’s a really cute soft-shell jacket that I didn’t see before, and I put that on, too. I brush my teeth. Socks, trainers, yoga mat, phone. Hotel key card. Ready, I head back to the front door.
