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His hands go up in a defensive posture, but I keep on rolling.
“Like a black-market auction to give my most delicate flower to the highest bidder?”
My voice is a little too loud now, I can tell by the way he’s shaking his head and looking at the people around us at the same time, though I have no choice but to see it through.
“Well, I’m not! I’d never be so cavalier. I sent those text messages while I was all hopped up on anesthesia and thought I was heading to the other side. I thought I was dead, for Pete’s sake!”
“Maybe, calm down,” he says softly, doing his best to wrangle the beast I’ve become. “I…I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not my place.”
“You’re damn right, it’s not your place!”
“Maybe,” he says calmly, reaching out to grab both of my hands with his own. At the contact, every raging brain cell in my mind shuts down. I am immediately, frighteningly, at peace. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah…well…good.”
I look down at our hands—hands that are still gloriously touching—and take a deep breath to steady myself. I’d need a hell of a lot more than ten fingers to count how many times I’ve imagined what it would feel like to have Milo Ives’s hands on me. Now, I find myself wondering what he would taste like, what he would sound like when he comes. What those hands would feel like when they’re touching other places.
All of my teenage fantasies come rushing back in a tsunami-like wave, and I almost laugh. Just like Milo himself, my delusional daydreams about him have grown up.
I snap my eyes away from our hands, and they land right on his mouth.
His stupid, sexy mouth.
I move my gaze again, but this time end up lost in his insanely beautiful blue eyes.
I’m starting to wonder why God decided to give Milo Ives all the good stuff. It feels like some sort of sick joke.
“So…what exactly did my brother ask you to do?” I use the brief pause to redirect the conversation to something other than those damn text messages. “Just use your rich people contacts to connect me with publishing houses in the city?”
He smirks. “Rich people contacts?”
“Oh, come on, Billionaireman,” I retort. “I’m surprised you can even walk in the city without men and women falling at your feet and financial advisors picketing for your investment money.”
He rolls his eyes but chuckles. “Does the role of Billionaireman come with a cape? I’ve always wanted a cape.”
I snort. “If you want a cape, clearly, you can afford to buy a cape.”
“You don’t think that’ll get me funny looks?”
“In this city? With your money? It’ll be the next big fashion trend. You’ll see capes on every blessed corner.”
He shakes his head. “Better stick to suits, then.”
I smile—a big, dreamy smile that could easily cross over into creepy if I don’t monitor it closely. Unfortunately, we’ve gotten off topic enough that I have to go out on a limb again. “So, besides the rich people contacts, what else did he ask of you?”
His beautiful blue eyes narrow slightly. “What else do you think he asked me?”
“I don’t know…” I pause, and a thousand different scenarios play out in my head. “Ev is fucking nosy sometimes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he asked you to help me make friends or date or something insane like that.”
“Help you date?” His eyes go wide. “I can assure you that was not requested of me.”
“Well, I’m shit at dating.” The words just kind of fall out of my mouth before I can stop them. “So, it wouldn’t exactly be unwarranted.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I am,” I answer honestly, and before I know it, I’m pouring my heart out like this is a goddamn Jackie Collins novel.
It’s annoying as hell. But not anything new.
Even as a kid, Milo could pretty much get me to tell him anything.
I fondly recall being eleven years old and telling him about a fight I’d had with Emma—my best friend at the time. It was the usual catty girl stuff, but it was putting a serious rain on my adolescent parade, and Milo ended up being the only person in my house who was willing to listen.
After that, I trusted him.
And evidently, over a decade later, I still do.
“You didn’t date when you were at Stanford?” he asks and pops a fry into his mouth.
“A few times, I guess.” I shrug. “But nothing of substance. Most guys my age weren’t into a quiet night of Netflix. They wanted frat parties and bar-hopping.”
“Sounds like you’ve been dating the wrong guys, Mayb.”
I snort. “So, what you’re telling me is that basically every guy I came into contact with at Stanford was the wrong guy?”
“No.” He laughs. “Well, maybe. I don’t know who you were around. But a college frat party isn’t a great place to meet a guy, base case.”
