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Which, yeah, I agreed to for the closet space, but I also agreed to it because Rebecca was right, Winter could have asked for anything as leverage, but she asked for that. And she did it in her goddamn panties. A negotiation tactic that rivals that of the best lawyers I’ve ever worked with.
The truth is, Winter is not beneath me. Not by a longshot. I may have more money, ungodly amounts more and a better fashion sense—mostly because of the ungodly amounts of money part—but Winter eclipses me in every other category imaginable. Her heart is pure. She’s genuine and honest. She’s funny and smart, and she’s all of those things ten times the amount I am on her worst day. Which, if I’m being honest, is one of the things I find so mind-numbingly irritating about her.
Outcome B.) We have an excellent time. As much of a nonissue that would seem to most, I’m not that fucking stupid. I know what happens after we have an excellent time. Tomorrow she wakes up with a little extra pep in her step. She starts doing little things to please me. She starts trying to get me to notice her. She flirts, but not the way she does now. Which, at times, seems accidental and immediately followed by regret.
No, after we have an excellent time, her interactions will become more calculated and planned. It will lose all of its excitement and charm.Shewill lose all of her excitement and charm.
She’lllikeme. She’ll want me. And I’ll fuck her because I’m a heartless asshole. But I won’t want more with her because that part of me is broken. I can’t have feelings for Winter. I can’t have feelings foranyone. I can fuck her, play with her, flirt with her, even get to know her, but when our time is up, it’s up. She’ll get nothing more from me than a smack on the ass and a few dozen regrets. And as shocked as I am to say it, tofeelit, I don’t want to hurt her.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table, so I reach forward, peeking at the screen. Hayden calling, again. I clear the call for the umpteenth time in the last three days and shoot Trent a text.
Me: Did you hand deliver the folder from the Garrette-Hathaway account?
One thing I love about Trent and one of the many reasons he—unlike the countless assistants who came before him—hasn’t been fired yet is that he lives and breathes his work. And ten times out of ten, he answers my texts and calls within seconds. I don’t like to wait. He knows that. Obviously Winter didn’t get that memo—or she doesn’t care—because I’ve been sitting here, ready, for fifteen minutes. My jaw fucking tics, but I digress. Trent responds like he’s been sitting at his desk, in his car, or in the shower, or wherever he is, staring at it, waiting for me to reach out.
Unlike Winter. I’m just saying.
Trent: I did, sir. Mr. Porter’s assistant reached out to make sure you’ll be attending the Zoom meeting at four o’clock this evening. Also, Hayden has called the office four times looking for you.
Me: Did Hayden sound like he was in agony? Dying? On his deathbed, or something of the like?
Trent: No, sir. Just irritated he’s not been able to reach you.
Me: Next time he reaches out, tell him to eat a dick. Regarding the Zoom meeting, reschedule. I’m busy for the rest of the evening. Cancel the morning conference call as well.
Trent: Sure thing, sir.
Me: Do you frequent dive bars, Trent?
Trent: Only since I moved here. I think it’s an LA thing, sir. What would you like me to find out?
Me: There’s a bar a half a mile north of the resort called Fat Billie’s. Send over a bottle of Macallan 30 and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food within the hour. Also, tip them an extra thousand dollars to clean the place. Have them pay extra attention to the restrooms. I’ll be spending the evening there with my roommate.
Trent: And how is Miss Sommers, sir?
Me: Maddening, Trent.
As if she couldfeelme thinking about her, Winter opens the door to her room. The sound of her walking down the hall to the living quarters echoes through the hallway. Heels. I hear heels, that’s a good sign.
My phone vibrates so I drop my head to see Trent’s reply as Winter enters the room in my periphery.
Trent: Consider it done, sir. Have fun at Fat Billie’s.
Me: I’d have a better chance of enjoying chronic anal itch, but thank you for your positivity, Trent.
I stand, pocketing my phone in my fitted Brunello Cucinelli joggers, not loving the fact that I’ll be wearing my nine-hundred-dollar sweatpants to a place calledFat Billie’s. My only comfort being I don’t have to wear my nine-thousand-dollar dress pants there.
Winter is going to owe me for this.
I grab my wallet from the coffee table, open it to check for my keycard, then slide my wallet into my back pocket. I turn to walk to the kitchen island to join Winter, stopping dead in my tracks when my eyes fall on her.
Dead in myfuckingtracks.
Nothing, and I meannothing, could stop my instant raging erection from pointing straight at Winter while yelling,“Boss, boss, do you see her? Do you see what she’s wearing?!”
Yeah, I fucking see her, Dick.
And while I’m wearing joggers no less. With nothing to weigh it down with. I look like I put a traffic cone over my cock.
