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“I do.” Her eyes flickered up to mine, their expression hard to read in the shadows. “I’m–I’m just starting my career, Julian. I don’t want the things I achieve to be stained with–you know. Assumptions.”
I knew. Hell, I could write a book on achievements being overshadowed by assumptions. The first ten years of my career brought record profits to Lewis Productions. The industry had congratulated me to my face and whispered that my dad must still be running the show from behind the scenes behind my back. It was only in the last few years that people stopped thinking my continued success was a fluke or that I was my father’s puppet. If I gave a shit, it would keep me up at night.
“It’s just dinner, Laurier.”
“It’s never just dinner in this town.”
Frustration thrummed through me, but I didn’t argue because I knew she was right. However, her words sparked an idea. “What if I took you to dinner inanothertown?” I asked slowly, my hand stilling as the idea crystallized in my mind.
She pushed up on her elbows again and tilted her head curiously. “Like…San Diego?”
“Like Oregon.”
“Oregon,” she repeated. “What’s in Oregon?”
“Callum O’Conner.”
“The author?”
“The pain in the ass. I want to option his book, and he’s ignoring our latest offer.” It occurred to me that showing up with my twenty-five-year-old girlfriend might not be the best move if I was trying to convince Callum that I was a respectable, standup guy. Then I shoved it out of my head. Willow could stay at the hotel, or we could introduce her as the only person Miller trusted to bring the raw cut of the footage to Callum. The last part was probably true. The point was, we’d make a long weekend of it. I’d have an excuse to skip the Grammys, and I’d get Willow out of this damn town.
We could act like a normal couple for once.
Willow’s thoughts had followed the same path as mine and come to the same conclusion. Matching grins spread across our faces as we stared at each other in the twilight darkness of my bedroom. “I’ve never been to Oregon,” she said teasingly, like she was still considering it.
“Want to go with me?” I pulled her up so that she was straddling me, her knees on either side of my hips.
She rocked forward so that her warm apex was against my cock. “I could be persuaded,” she murmured, then gasped as I jerked my legs apart. She fell into the bucket of my lap. Her laugh turned to another gasp as I dragged her forward and entered her.
“Come with me,” I said insistently. “I’ll book it right now.”
She got a grip on my shoulders, stabilized, and began sliding up and down the length of my shaft. “Rightnow?” she teased.
It was another couple of hours before I got around to it.
* * *
If Willow hadn’t been coming with me, the trip to Oregon would have been a teeth-gnashing misery. First of all, it was fucking February and therefore freezing. Second of all, the commune Callum lived on was three hours from the nearest airport. The flight from LAX to Redmond was two hours, and then we had to rent a car and drive another three in the damn snow. The closest town to the commune was a small, scrubby, blink-and-you-miss-it place. There were no hotels, only one derelict motel.
When we pulled up to it, Willow started laughing at the look on my face.
“You’ve never stayed in a place like this, have you?” she asked, her eyes dancing with mirth.
“I think we shot a horror movie in a place like this once,” I muttered, taking it in. No way in hell could I take Willow here for our first getaway. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a lot of options.
“Oh, come on,” she said cheerfully. “It’ll be fun. Let’s go check in.”
Neither of us were properly equipped for the snow, but we slogged through it, the cold and damp seeping through our shoes and socks. The lobby was a small room with an electric fireplace plugged in against one wall, two sagging armchairs, and a long counter. A woman sat behind it, smiling pleasantly at us.
“California?” she guessed when we walked in.
Willow laughed again. “How did you know?”
The woman’s eyes dropped down to our footwear, then came back up to our jackets. “Lucky guess,” she said kindly. “Checking in?”
I still had my doubts, but Willow affirmed that we were. We paid less than what my barber charged for a haircut and got a small key that was attached to a big plastic card.
“Turn right, go down five doors,” the woman told us. “Ice machine is by the stairwell.”
