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“I’m fine, I promise,” I mumble. “It’s just…I’m a mess. I don’t deserve your help. I got myself into this situation and I don’t want to rely on you to get me out. You have no idea how hard it is for me to accept your help, like I’m…useless. A failure.” I sob out every word, feeling pathetic, but also safe.
He lets out a heavy sigh, and I’m hanging on every second until he speaks, needing him to say something encouraging. Praying to God he’s not about to lecture me or reprimand me or talk down to me like I’m a child.
“You’re not a failure, Daisy. Accepting my help doesn’t mean you need me to get you out of the situation you’re in. It means you’ve taken care of yourself for so long that you deserve a break. I wouldn’t offer to help you if I thought by doing so, I’d make you more dependent on me.”
He pauses for a moment before softly adding, “In fact,I’mthe one who needs out of the situation I’m in. There’s no excitement in my life anymore. And hearing you play today…it made me realize how muchIneedyou.”
I let out a shaky breath. Before he can utter another word, I whisper, “Thank you.”
RULE #10: NEVER TURN DOWN A FREE TRIP TO PARIS
Daisy
My fingers graze the spines of the books on Ronan’s shelf. He has a floor-to-ceiling bookcase in his formal living room, next to the piano, and I’m browsing the titles while he prepares us both a cup of tea.
Because he knows chamomile helps me sleep.
When I spotA Moveable Feast, my fingers freeze, remembering him mention it as his favorite book. With a half-smile, I pull it from the shelf. Turning it over, I read the short description on the back. Beneath it is a photo of Hemingway, rugged and brooding, and I smile to myself. Sort of reminds me of someone.
Carrying the book to the front room, I hold it in my lap as I curl up on the oversized sofa, thanking my lucky stars that I’m not suffering through another cold night in the van. There’s a clicking sound followed by a delicatewhoosh, and I glance across the living room as a fire pops up in the sleek white marble fireplace set in the living room wall. I feel the heat right away, but I still tug the blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around me.
He didn’t ask any questions after my fall, and I’m grateful for that. My shame and embarrassment for letting my blood sugar get that low is torture enough. Not to mention, my head is slightly achy too.
Resting it on the side of the sofa, I watch Ronan in the kitchen as he pulls two mugs from the cabinet before turning on the electric kettle. After placing the tea bags in the mugs, he unfastens the buttons on his dress shirt around his wrists and rolls up each sleeve to the elbow.
Why is that so sexy? His thick forearms are on display, and I briefly wonder to myself if this is what seeing cleavage is like to men.
If only Ronan was closer to my age. Would it still feel so strange to be here with him? There are so many barriers between us. Age, money, lifestyle. He’s a fifty-six-year-old billionaire. I’m a twenty-one-year-old from the Midwest, currently living in her van. My favorite food is Wendy’s fries dipped in a Frosty. I bet his favorite food is lobster tails or caviar. The most expensive thing I ever bought was my van, and I’m willing to bet the couch I’m sitting on cost more.
And, oh yeah, he more than likely dated my mother.
But when he looks at me like he is now, as if he can see right through them, it doesn’t feel like those barriers exist.
Even if we did blur the lines and sleep together, it would never be more than a crazy story I tell my friends years from now.This one time, I had a sugar daddy…
He sets my cup of tea on the coffee table before taking a seat on the other side of the sofa. We sit in silence for a few moments, and I feel his kind eyes on me. He’s not pressuring me or judging me. This sudden feeling ofsafetywith him is so strange, especially as it begins to mingle with a subtle sense of attraction. I mean, I masturbated to him an hour ago, so I think it’s safe to say that I’m not so opposed to the idea of him anymore.
I still can’t quite get a read on what I am to him.
Flipping through the book in my lap, I read a few pages at a time, and it feels as if I’m reading a part of him. It’s all short sentences and long words, but I skim through a few paragraphs anyway.
“Do you like it?” he asks in a gentle murmur, and something about those words on his lips sends another flutter to my core, this time lower than before.
I screw up my nose as I turn the page. “You really think this is his best work?”
“I didn’t say it was his best. I said it was my favorite,” he replies with pride.
“Touché. Have you been to Paris?” I ask, knowing the question is a stupid one. No one would call Hemingway’s ode to the City of Lights their favorite without having been there, especially not a man as wealthy as him.
“I have an apartment in the city,” he says nonchalantly.
I can’t help but roll my eyes as I take a sip of my tea. “Of course, you do.”
“Was that judgment?” he teases, and I bite back my shame for letting my face express too much.
“No…” I lie. “Call it jealousy.”
“So you’ve never been?”
