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He grabs the bottle by the neck and says, "We're not done yet. We still have half a bottle left."
My eyes widen in shock. "You want to finish the bottle off?"
He looks at me like I’d just asked an obvious question. When he responds, he makes it more of a statement.
"Yes, we are."
My stomach is a cluster of knots. "James, I can't get drunk."
"You're not going to. I'm going to feed you, and then we're going to drink slowly and talk. I like talking to you, Valentina. I'm not ready for our time to be over."
I smile softly, and his gaze falls to my lips. He's laid back, much to my surprise for a New York City lawyer. If only all my jobs were like this. Then maybe there wouldn't be the constant battle between morality and survival raging inside of me, and it'd be more like two old friends hanging out.
James says he likes a girl who speaks her mind, so I decide to test it out by asking him something that's been weighing on my mind since earlier.
"Why are you sitting here wasting five hundred dollars drinking with me, a nobody? I'm just another girl trying to get by with selling her body to the highest bidder. Philip is right. I am a whore—"
His eyes darken. "Don't call yourself that."
"You'll probably never see me again after this, so why indulge in a rare bottle with someone like me? Why did you bring me here instead of to a hotel?"
He studies me. "Would you rather go to a hotel?"
No.
"I want to do whatever you want. I guess I'm just confused. Most men in this situation don't just want to talk. They want their dicks sucked."
Twenty-Three
The lines around his eyes deepen as he observes me. James isn't outwardly bothered by my honesty—he doesn’t even flinch—and I feel myself leaning into him more which confuses me. Small talk drives me crazy, b
ut then again our small talk doesn't feel like small talk.
My gaze takes in his wide chest, his suit jacket long forgotten, and I wonder what he looks like under the crisp, white fabric. I love a man in a white dress shirt, and James looks downright edible in his. My tongue runs over my bottom lip. I'm usually a pretty touchy-feely drunk girl, but this is different. The craving is simmering just below boiling point, and while I want to run my hands all over the hard planes of his chest while I’m waiting for a response, I don't.
I blink a few times, confused by my thoughts. Swallowing, I sit up a little straighter, reminding myself that this is nothing more than a job. I'm paid to give an illusion, and that's what I need to remember. Tomorrow I'll wake up Aubrey Abrams and I'll be taking a college exam and the spell with James will be broken when I get a text message from Madam Christine for my next job.
"Life is too short, Valentina."
He hands me a fresh glass and pours one for himself. I can smell the lilac and breathe it in. It's oddly peaceful.
"There's no price tag we can put on a moment that makes us feel good. You've made me feel alive today. I'm not stressing about work, what emails I need to respond to when tonight is over…what I'll go home to. There's no pressure on my chest like I'm fucking suffocating in this rat race city." He shakes his head and takes a sip. "Memories are priceless to me. Maybe years from now you'll come back here, and it'll spark a reminder of our time together. You may not remember everything that happened this day, but you'll feel it in your heart. Maybe one day, someone will wipe the lipstick from my lips and I'll remember how I had an entire bottle of cognac one Saturday afternoon with a gorgeous woman who mouthed off to a rival partner from a very large law firm. Money can buy a lot of things, but it can't buy moments, and those are priceless. Spending five hundred dollars on a bottle of liquor gave me an unexpected day that I'm probably going to remember for the rest of my life. I say it was worth it."
I blink, deeply moved by his words. It was the last thing I expected him to say and the tighten reaction in my chest catches me off guard.
James sets down his glass, then removes a cufflink. I watch as he rolls up his white sleeve, revealing a jungle of intricate, colorful tattoos that I marvel over. This wasn't done by any corner shop, but by a true artist who charged a shitload of money.
"This is why I’ve never gotten any tattoos," I find myself saying. "Well, one of the reasons. I don’t want one if it can't look this exquisite."
James turns his arm over and I see a quote amid the designs, tucked away so that only the people he chooses to show can see it.
"Life is a collection of moments," he reads. His voice washes over me and I lean in. "When I'm six feet under, my story will still be here because memories don't die. They'll live on."
I have an overwhelming urge to kiss him in this moment. I know I can't just do that, though, not unless he asks for it. Instead, I place my glass on the table next to his, then roll up his sleeve as far as his thick forearm allows, and take in his art.
"Are these all moments?" I ask, my fingers tracing over the lines. I'm in awe. I want to study his ink and unravel who this man is.
He widens his thighs, the material tightening around his legs. "Yes. Everything on my body has meaning."
