She doesn't respond to that, which is answer enough, and I lean my head back against the seat, my body still thrumming with want, my mind already calculating logistics for Vegas.
Wednesday morning. Seven AM. Two days away.
Forty-eight hours until I have Harper Beaumont alone in Vegas.
This time, I'm not letting her slip away. And I'm not making the same mistakes.
This time, I'm taking what I want.
And what I want is her.
My phone buzzes again. Rachel.
RACHEL (PR): I heard from Dmitri about Vegas and Richard Francis. Please tell me you won’t do anything stupid when you get back to that city
I look at the lipstick on my collar, at the evidence of exactly how stupid I've been lately.
ME: Define stupid.
RACHEL (PR): VICTOR.
ME: I fly out Wednesday. Harper's coming with me.
RACHEL (PR): For the board meetings?
ME: Among other things.
RACHEL (PR): What other things?
ME: That's between me and my wife.
RACHEL (PR): Your FAKE wife.
ME: We'll see.
I put my phone on silent before she can respond, mentally prepping for tonight’s call and Vegas in forty-eight hours, ready to see if I can handle what happens when I stop holding back.
And definitely ready to see if my beautiful fake wife can handle the same very soon.
16
DINNER WITH THE IN-LAWS (FAKE MARRIAGE EDITION)
HARPER
By Wednesday morning, 7 AM sharp, I'm freezing my rear-end off, not to mention standing outside a private airfield in New Jersey wondering if I've accidentally wandered into a fictionalized version of my own life.
It's been exactly forty-eight hours since Victor kissed me senseless in the back of his town car, commanded me to pack for Vegas, and then proceeded to send me text messages that would make a nun renounce her faith.
The November morning is brutally cold—twenty-eight degrees according to my phone, the sun just starting to rise over the tarmac, painting the world in shades of blush-pink and gold. My breath comes out in visible puffs as I stand next to my rolling suitcase, staring at the sleek private jet that's apparently going to fly us to Vegas.
Victor's private jet.
My boss’s flying McMansion is borderline obscene, gorgeous in a way that makes me feel like I should apologize for existing—all white exterior with silver accents and "StreamEats" written in elegant script along the fuselage.
Doesn’t help that I’m wearing black jeans, a cream sweater, and what I once thought was my nicest coat—which suddenly feels like I showed up to the Met Gala in Target clearance.
My goal this morning was simple: arrive on time, be professional, establish boundaries after that car incident, and absolutely do not think about Victor's hands below my waist or his deep, rumbling voice in my ear or the way he said "when I make you come” like it was a foregone conclusion.
