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We stop at a little pull-off with a guardrail and a million-dollar view. He kills the engine and unfastens his seatbelt. I do the same.
“I don’t know what this is or where this is going to go,” he says. “And maybe it’s a little unconventional. But I want to find out.”
My mouth is dry and my heart gallops so fast I think I might faint. “I want to find out too.”
“What do you make at the café?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. I’ve never told anyone what I make before except my mother. “On a good day, a couple hundred. On a slow day, half that?”
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars a week.” He doesn’t so much as hesitate when dropping that offer in my lap. “I only ask that you answer my calls and texts, and that you make yourself available to me when I need you.”
When he needs me …
I think of those pretty girls in the pictures with him. Did he pay them for their time, as well? Aren’t there other women who would be with him for free?
“That’s extremely generous of you,” I say, “but it seems weird … don’t you think?”
Accepting the fifteen hundred last time was enthralling at first, but the more I thought about it, the dirtier I felt.
“That’s a lot of money,” I add. Though I suppose it’s pocket change to a millionaire. “I don’t want to feel like I owe you something.”
He chuckles, his hand cupping my cheek and his head tilting. “You owe me nothing. I want to be with you, and your time is valuable. That’s all.”
The warmth of his cologne invades my senses as it emanates from his wrist, and before I have a chance to respond, he silences me with a kiss—lip gloss be damned.
I melt against him and quiet the storm of questions swirling in my busy little head.
Something tells me my mind might win the battle, but it’s going to lose the war.
It’s him my heart wants.
Eleven
Trey
Present
The infinite expanse of my home greets me with my own echoing footsteps after dinner. The housemaid left a note by the backdoor, telling me the dry cleaning has been hung and that the gardener had a family emergency and wasn’t able to prune the boxwoods this afternoon.
I crumple the paper and toss it in the garbage.
The caretaker’s cottage is dark, Mr. and Mrs. Petroff are likely visiting their grandkids tonight, as they do most Friday nights.
I stop by the study on my way to bed and pour myself two fingers of Four Roses bourbon, a quick nightcap to take the edge off my thoughts.
Collapsing in my father’s old wingback chair, I retrieve my phone and check a few emails. And by a few, I mean at least ninety-six—most of them sent in the past couple of hours.
I delete the majority of them and file the important ones that can wait until I’m in a clearer state of mind. Friday evenings are when I unwind, shut my mind off to give it a break after a long week. I don’t like to think too hard because thinking is all I fucking do every minute of every hour of every other day of the week.
When I get to the bottom of my inbox, I find the message from Broderick sent earlier this week—one containing Sophie Bristol’s personal address and cell.
It’s not quite ten o’clock.
I’ll bet she’s still up.
I toss back a mouthful of bourbon and let my impatience and minor lack of inhibition get the better of me. Composing a text, I hit send before I change my mind.
ME: Did you finish your wine yet?
Three dots fill the screen instantly before disappearing. A moment later, a message fills the screen. Any other woman would’ve taken their time replying so as not to seem desperate, but not her.
She has zero interest in playing any games and no reason to impress me.
SOPHIE: Texting my personal cell on a Friday night? Boundaries must not be a thing with you …
ME: Limitations are for the weak-minded. Again, did you finish your wine yet?
SOPHIE: Every last drop. You realize I’m hourly, not salary, right? This could cost you in overtime.
ME: It would if this were work related. This has nothing to do with your current position in Payroll. This is a private, non-corporate matter.
I top off my bourbon and swallow another mouthful. She wants to flirt. This is good.
ME: Tell me what it’s going to take.
The screen is blurry. I’m buzzing and mentally exhausted, but I re-read my message to make sure there are no typos before sending.
SOPHIE: You’re not giving up, are you?
ME: I’m a man who knows what he wants.
SOPHIE: I appreciate that, Trey. I do, but you don’t want me. You only think you do.
ME: How could you possibly know that?
SOPHIE: Because you saw me in the hallway and immediately decided you wanted me to marry you and have your babies?
