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“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be,” she says as I set the glass and painkillers down next to her makeup wipes.
“How’s that?” The plastic tub goes beside her bed, and I gather her discarded clothes into a pile.
“You’re very...decent.”
I snort. “Gee, thanks for setting the bar so low.”
She shakes her head. “It’s just... I guess I believed what I’d been told, but I know by spending one evening with you that you’re not at all bad.”
“Don’t be so quick to label me the good guy, either,” I mutter. “It’s not quite that black and white.”
“You seem like a good guy to me.” She takes a sip of her water and lies back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. “Am I going to be embarrassed tomorrow?”
I brush a strand of hair from her forehead and let my eyes linger on her full, rosebud-shaped lips and the sweet smattering of pale gold freckles across her nose. “No. There’s no need to be embarrassed.”
I flick off the bedside lamp and now only the light from the next room illuminates her. In the shadows, I see her shift under the covers, curling into the pillow. “Will you stay with me for a little while? I... I’ve never been very good at sleeping on my own.”
Christ. Just when I thought I’d be able to walk away and stop being tested, she asks for this.
“Okay.”
She scoots over in the bed and I kick off my shoes so I can lay on top of the covers. This is pure fucking torture, seeing her beautiful body right next to mine. Smelling the sweet scent of her perfume and feeling her silken hair tumble against my arm.
Mike did not deserve this angel. That much I know.
She deserves a man who’ll appreciate her, who’ll treasure her...not one who’ll treat her like a trophy. Like a means to an end. She deserves someone who’ll put her first.
But I have to put that out of my head. I’m not here to worry about what Presley needs, because the only thing that matters to me right now is figuring out a way to save my grandfather’s company from ruin. I need something from her—information. Shemustknow something. I’ve long suspected Mike was misappropriating company funds for personal things like holidays and trinkets. She’s the key to helping me figure that out.
Which means, tempting as she might be, Presley Richardson is off limits.
CHAPTER NINE
Presley
MYHEADISa wrecking ball. And I don’t mean the kind mounted by a scantily clad Miley Cyrus, either. I mean like a full-on wrecking ball that’s busting through walls of brick and mortar, showering me in debris. It pounds like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
In fact, I can’t remember the last time I got drunk.
Previous Presley wasn’t the kind of girl who got wasted. One, because I can hold my liquor, thank you very much. And two, I like being in control. No, Ineedto be in control. But last night I was a hot mess of epic proportions and... Oh God, did I ask Sebastian to put me to bed?
I push up into a sitting position, my stomach lurching. At some point in the middle of the night, my water glass was refilled but I don’t remember getting out of bed. There’s a Post-it stuck to the nightstand and the writing is unfamiliar. “Drink your water. I left breakfast in the kitchen. Seb.”
His phone number is also scrawled at the bottom and for some reason it makes my stomach flip for an entirely new reason. I got serious vibes off him last night, which was a total surprise. More surprising was the way I felt in return.
I’d fallen asleep with the heat of his body infusing mine, hand stroking my hair. In my dreams, he’d rolled me beneath him, parted my thighs with his knees and pressed into me. The dream was so vivid and so real, I’d woken panting, rubbing my hand between my legs. The disappointment was so sharp, I’d tried to will the dream to come back to me.
I toy with the note, my eyes reading the phone number over and over as if trying to commit it to memory. But why would I do that?
“He probably wrote it down in case you needed to remember anything from last night,” I say to myself. “Not because he wants to see you again.”
After all, why would he want to see me? I acted like an eighteen-year-old out on my first night of legal drinking, going too hard, too soon and not having any clue about my limits. I pop two of the painkillers into my mouth and chug them with the glass of water. Now, he said something about breakfast...
I pad to the kitchen and find a bag from the café downstairs. Inside is a fresh bagel, untoasted, with a few little packets of cream cheese and butter. There’s a smaller bag with some of those Italian biscuits I love—the kind that have the ends dipped in chocolate. How on earth could he know that’s exactly what I needed?
Not only that, he must have stayed until morning and then gone out to buy me treats. My heart melts. Another Post-it is stuck to the bag. “Seriously, call me.”
His number is written again and I can’t help but grin like a stupid schoolgirl. This is ridiculous—two days ago I was about to marry his stepbrother and now I’m fawning like this gesture means something. Am I that broken? That desperate to be loved?
