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"Wow—it's beautiful."
I feel a little embarrassed as I say it—a little bourgeoisie—but this is Hunter; he's seen my mom's 1990s kitchen, and I know he knows about my family's financial woes.
His hand around mine tightens. "Decorator.” In the dancing light of the chandelier, his face looks beautiful and hard. "Are you hungry?"
"No, not right now." I'm too nervous for that.
He nods. "Then follow me."
I'm all eyes as he leads me down a wide hallway with a marble, checkerboard floor and gorgeous wood walls. It's very masculine, elegantly understated, with few frou-frou decorations.
We pass a huge, lit painting of a bird dog prancing and a Gothic, shotgun home, and I say, "You're from New Orleans, right?"
He nods, but doesn't speak, and I feel kind of foolish for acting like we just met.
Really, our relationship—if you can call it that—has been pretty much the same since that night at his party. Nothing personal, just physical. Which, again, makes me wonder why he paid so much for this. I wonder if it's possible he really likes the idea of being the first man in between my legs. It's a little crude, so I push the thought away.
I follow him into a comfortable men's parlor with two plush, soft couches, a recliner, and a fireplace, plus an emerald marble bar and shelves filled with old, hardback books. His laptop, a sleek, black Mac, sits on an end table, half cracked. I can't help the buzz inside my chest that comes from being in his personal space.
"Have a seat," he tells me, motioning to the couches.
He strides over to the bar and pours two drinks. Bourbon, of course. Mine is shallow, his is larger. He sits across from me in a wing-backed chair, one ankle propped on his knee, and I feel the belly bats again. He looks so serious, and even more imposing than usual, here in his own home.
"I have a proposition for you, Scarlett."
Belly bats DIVE!
I swallow hard, feeling like I might throw up. "Okay."
"You stay for a week, and sex is optional. Initiated only by you. If, by week's end, you haven't done so, you can return home to Napa."
My mouth falls open. That's how shocked I am. I can feel my face redden as I falter, "I-I don't understand."
"Take it at face value," he advises.
I shake my head, feeling shocked and...kind of stung. "I just don't get...why did you do this? Why pay so much tonight if you don't want to... If you don't want this. Does this have to do with Priscilla Heat?" It doesn’t seem logical, but then again, nothing about him does. Maybe bidding on me was just a means to an end. A bet or something. Maybe he wants me to be in a film. I rub my lips together, feeling vulnerable and disappointed.
"Priscilla and I are not an item,” he says wearily. “Trust me.”
I have no reason too, as he’s already pointed out, but even if I did, that still doesn't explain why he just paid millions of dollars to take my virginity, only to now tell offer me this bizarre…I don’t even know what to call it.
Then I have a terrible thought. What if he’s decided he doesn’t want me anymore, and this is the best way he can think of to let me down gently. I swallow back my humiliation.
"Have some of your drink, Libby. Hal will have your luggage in soon and I'll show you to your room." He rubs a hand through his blond hair.
"You look tired."
One eyebrow arches, a similar expression to the one that Marchant Radcliffe makes. When it's clear he's not answering, and the ensuing silence has stolen all my bolder questions, I decide to ask about that. "You and Marchant have been friends since college, right?”
He nods.
"Tulane?”
"Right." He takes a swallow of his bourbon. "I'm surprised you know."
I know I have to be red as an apple, but I try to cover. "You're kind of famous."
"It's the television," he says. "People watch you play poker, they feel like they know you."
