Page 50 of Mr. Romantic (Mister 2)

His smile appears. Like he’s got another trick up his sleeve. “But last night was?”

“Last night I might’ve lost control a little, but the light of day—and your sister—have brought clarity to the situation. I don’t trust you.” There, I said it. “I just don’t trust you.”

“I should be the one who doesn’t trust you. Maybe you did slip that fake résumé in the pile? Maybe Corporate didn’t fuck with it? Maybe,” he says, that sly grin still gracing his face. “Maybe you came here to seduce me? Get pregnant and trap me?”

“Please.” I laugh. “I was the one who insisted on a condom.”

“True,” he says, taking my long blonde hair in his fingertips and pulling the hair tie out so it blows in the wind. “But how can I be certain?”

“I’m the one who needs to be certain, Nolan. Not you. I’m not dangerous.”

“Because you’re a woman?” he asks. “I’ve met my share of dangerous women before, Ivy.”

He’s got a point. “Well, I’m just not convinced this is a good idea. I like your house, and your car, and your view. But I’m not sure I actually like you.”

He stares at me for a few seconds. Just the sound of the crashing waves and a low hum of people coming from the racetrack down below. “Would you like to know a secret about me, Ivy? Something no one else knows?”

“What kind of secret?”

“What do you need to know in order to trust me?”

I take a deep breath and let it out. “What happened that night?”

He shakes his head. “No, not that.”

“Why not? If you have nothing to hide?”

“Because we made a pact to never talk about it again. And to be honest, I don’t actually know what happened that night.”

“How could you not know, Nolan? You were there.” What does he take me for? Some simpleton who will eat up his words and accept everything that comes out of his mouth as truth?

“I wasn’t there.”

“What do you mean? Of course you were there. Everyone knows you were there.”

“I was…” But he stops.

“You were what?” I’m dying now, and he’s not getting anything from me until I understand what happened.

After a long silence he says, “I’ll tell you why they call me Mr. Romantic instead. How about that?”

“I already know why. You’re a player.”

“No,” he says. “I told you. That’s not why they call me Mr. Romantic. Claudette was lying. Well, not really lying. She has no idea either.”

So. A real secret. About his nickname, no less. “OK, then tell me.”

“Over breakfast,” he says, that winning grin back in place.

I feel like I just walked into a trap. I feel like a rabbit looking up into the eyes of a wolf.

“You want to take a shower?” he asks. “Freshen up while I cook? Come on, I’ll show you where.”

He takes my hand and leads me inside. The furniture is sparse and there’s not much about it that’s personal. Maybe that’s how he is? Impersonal. And this place says a lot about him. Or maybe all this was left over from his friend and he never bothered to change it?

He takes me through the large living area and back to the front foyer where we climb the stairs and walk down a catwalk that overlooks the view and the living room. It’s lined on either side with cables and steel posts. A very modern version of a railing.

We end up in what has to be the master bedroom because it has the same view as the back yard, but better.