Page 33 of Scoring Eden

Eden: This better not be a booty call.

Alex: Not unless you want it to be.

Eden: *eye-roll emoji*

Alex: The party is in two days. I figured we should probably get our stories straight, lay out some ground rules, that kind of thing.

Eden: Macon’s at drama club until 5, so I’ll have to leave before then.

Alex: That’s fine.

Alex: My favorite color is blue, by the way.

Eden: And you’re telling me now because…

Alex: Just in case you need help picking out lingerie. *wink-face emoji*

Eden: I’m calling off the deal.

Alex: See you at two.

TEN

EDEN

Alex is naked when he answers the door.

Alright, naked might be a slight exaggeration, since he’s wearing track pants, but they’re slung so low on his hips that he may as well not be wearing them at all.

It doesn’t help that he’s sweaty. And it’s running down all eight of his abs, and I’m…

Oh, Jesus. I’m counting his abs.

With flaming cheeks, I raise my gaze to his and groan when I catch the smug tilt to his smile.

“That’s the second time I’ve caught you checking me out.”

“Would it have killed you to put on a shirt?”

He runs his palm down his abdomen and smirks. “I just got back from the gym.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Is that what the smell is?”

His eyebrows jump with amusement, and he leans against the door frame, crossing his arms in front of him. Then he leisurely swoops his gaze over me with his lip caught between his teeth. I stare back with a calm coolness I don’t feel.

Where he’s made the choice to expose himself to the elements, I’ve opted for something a little more appropriate. February in Seattle is a miserable month, teasing snow without delivery and leaving us with rain and gray cloud cover, so as any sensible person would, I dressed with that in mind.

A tight cream sweater hugs my chest, and light wash jeans cover the tops of my boots. Aspen insisted I cinch them at the waist with a slim YSL belt—that cost far more money than it should for such a narrow strip of leather—to “show off my shape.” Namely, my ass. Pregnancy left a little extra weight behind in that region, and I’m thankful for it every day.

Around my shoulders I wear a waterproof jacket that makes up for its unaesthetic shortcomings with functionality. The best thing about it, though, is that it wasn’t paid for with Alex’s credit card—something I can’t say for the rest of my outfit.

Standing here now in the threshold of his apartment, watching him rake his eyes over my new attire in approval, is possibly one of the most degrading things I’ve ever experienced. And yes, I can see the hypocrisy. Not even ten seconds ago was I doing the very same thing to him. But there’s a power imbalance to our situation. I’m not the one paying millions of dollars for him to stand beside me and look pretty.

“I don’t want to be a prostitute,” I blurt out.

He nods slowly. “There are other career avenues you can explore if that one doesn’t work for you.”

“It isn’t that I look down on them.” Without waiting to be invited in, I push past him into his hallway, still maintaining the wherewithal to slip off my shoes and leave them by the door. I might be stressed, but I have manners. “I imagine it’s very hard work and takes a kind of mental fortitude that I evidently don’t possess. I’m simply not cut out for it.”