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I squeeze my legs together, wishing it wasn’t so easy for him to turn me on, wishing I’d let someone take me back to a hotel instead of going back to Spearcrest to spend another night in the throes of grinding sexual frustration.
Still, I refuse to give Noah the satisfaction. I reply to his text.
Rose: Only one way to find out…
Then I send him a kiss emoji and turn my phone off.
Thenextmorning,Isit at my dressing table—well, my desk, repurposed as a dressing table—with my facemask on and my head in a bun on top of my head. Sipping my detox tea, I finally turn my phone back on. I smirk at the screen, waiting for the angry texts and panicked missed calls to flood in.
I’ve pulled this trick before; it never fails.
Until now, apparently.
Notifications pop up, but only one from Noah.
His reply to my last text, sent a couple of minutes after mine.
Noah: Please stay safe. Call me if you need me.
I glare at his text, floored by the unspeakable audacity of this man. Not only is he acting like he doesn’t care if I fuck somebody else, but he is apparently still enough of a gentleman to worry about my safety? To offer to pick me up if I need help?
He can’t possibly mean that. Noah Watson, with his ugly flat and broken nose and embarrassing honesty, has got to be the biggest game-player I’ve ever met.
No guy is this secure in himself.
Not even that: no guy is that nice.
Noah is pretending, like everybody else. He’s somehow fooled me into thinking he’s not playing games, but I can see right through him now. Unlucky for him, I’ve been playing these games far longer than he has—and with far tougher opponents. If I’ve survived three Young kings, I think I can handle some simple part-time gardener.
Time to call his bluff.
Ignoring his last text, I send him a message.
Rose: My father wants me to come to this charity gala in London and I need a date. Fancy it?
By the time he finally replies, I’ve rinsed off my facemask, moisturised, finished my detox tea, completed forty-five minutes of yoga and fifteen minutes of journaling, painted my nails, and stitched flowers on the sleeves of Cammie’s vintage denim jacket as per a request she made months ago.
Noah: Not really my scene. When is it?
Rose: January.
Noah: I’ll be working.
I glare at my phone but make sure my reply has a bunch of smile and heart emojis to project sweetness.
Rose: Take the day off. I’ll pay you if you want.
Noah: I don’t care about the money.
I smirk. Liar. Everybody cares about money—especially those who don’t hate it.
Rose: Then what’s the problem?
What excuses is he going to make? I know he won’t want to come. Someone like him would stick out like a sore thumb at the Gala.
That’s exactly why I want him to go. It’s probably going to take sleeping with him to get him to agree, but that’s a sacrifice I’m more than happy to make.
His reply pops up a few minutes later.
