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"I do."
"Completely?"
No. Of course not. There are too many strings. This is too complicated.
And I'm too slow to answer.
He knows I'm saying no. It's in his sigh. "It's smart that you don't."
"I just—"
"You don't have to justify yourself to me, Indigo. Your safety is more important than my feelings."
"It's not that I think you might—"
"It is. And it's fair."
But that's not true. I don't think Ty would hurt me. Not physically. Not the way he means.
He's careful with my body.
But my heart?
This plan—me, living by his side, accepting his gifts and his tenderness and his fuck, without falling for him—ends in heartbreak.
Either he can't see it or he doesn't care.
And that means I can't trust him completely.
"No," I say. "It's not. I don't think that about you. I need you to know that."
"You don't have to justify your apprehension."
Maybe, but—"Most guys aren't this careful. I… I need you to know that I see it. That I appreciate that you take your time with me."
"Indie, you don't—"
"Yes, I do." I suck a breath through my teeth. "I appreciate your care. Your patience. Your tenderness and your roughness." But I don't want him to know how it makes my stomach flutter.
That's mine and mine alone.
"I need you to know that," I say it again.
He's quiet for a moment. Then he says, "Thank you," in a tone I can't place.
Okay.
Thank you.
I guess it's an acknowledgment.
I can't bring myself to say you're welcome, so I let the silence fall.
I let the sounds of the city fill the space. A passing car. A conversation on the sidewalk. A honking horn.
Then Ty's voice flowing from my speaker. "There's a picture. I was going to tell you tonight." His voice is that same impossible-to-read tone. "From the restaurant. It's blurry. I can't tell it's you and I know you were there. All I see is black fabric and light skin."
"Oh."
"I barely recognize your dress. But then all I know about your dress is that I want it on my floor." Playfulness drops into his voice. Just barely, but it does.
The tension in my shoulders eases. This is… complicated. But we can figure it out.
"My cousin Cam saw the image," Ty says. "He's asking about it. About you."
"Oh."
"He wants to have dinner Saturday."
"Yeah. Sure."
"I had a photographer reserved for tonight, but with the picture going live… I figured you'd want time to explain to Sienna."
He's canceling for tonight.
Because he's upset?
Or because it's convenient?
"Sure, uh, we can do that," I say. "Dinner Saturday."
"You’ll meet Cam," he says.
"Just him?" I ask.
"You can invite Sienna, but he's a flirt."
"She is too."
"Exactly."
Oh. Right. I don't need to watch his cousin flirt with my eighteen-year-old sister.
"We'll be live soon," he says. "People will know."
"People?"
"Everyone. Ian will want to meet you."
"He's already met me."
"What is it you say? As the help?"
"But he knows. Doesn't he?" I ask.
"He knows I had a fling with a girl I met at a museum. Not that it was you."
"Oh." It doesn't fit the image I have of Ty. Or of Ty and his brother.
"He'll like you."
"Because I'm hot?"
"Because he'll believe you make me happy." His voice is matter-of-fact.
But I still feel the pain in it.
Ty not believing he'll ever be happy with anyone. Desperate to convince the entire world, and his closest confidants, that he's capable of loving someone.
Desperate to convince himself maybe.
"Okay," I say. "Saturday. We can figure out the rest of the details then."
"I'll pick you up at eight," he says. "Wear the lingerie under your clothes."
Intent drips back into his voice. Not enough to convince me he's past our conversation, that he's okay, that he thinks only of my orgasm.
But enough to make my pulse race and my toes curl.
Saturday at eight.
Saturday we take the steps to go official.
But what about after that?
Is he going to drop me here?
Or take me to his bed, like he promised?
Chapter Sixteen
Indigo
I have the entire day to myself.
Normally, I'd have work at four. Sienna already has afternoon plans.
There's no one else I want to see. No one I want to call.
I'm used to time alone—I work nights—but it's been a long time since I've had an entire day to myself, much less the mental space to use that time.
I don't have to worry about rent. Or dinner. Or Sienna's future.
Sure, I have a lot to figure out. But I have the space to do it now.
It's strange. New. Like I just dropped a heavy backpack.
My shoulders still ache, but they feel lighter too.
Easy.
Free of a burden.
There is a hundred thousand dollars in my checking account.
I can do anything. Whatever I want.
But what the fuck do I want?
After a long morning at a new spot—a place with ten-dollar pots of tea and delicate raspberry scones—I return to my empty apartment.
Find my guitar in the closet.
I close my eyes. Press my fingers to the strings.
