“I know.” My words come out in a whisper. I know me moving across the country was difficult for her. And I know for my sake, she won’t bring up the reason for my move. My hand instinctively goes to the scar on my torso.
The memory is too painful. I push it away.
She presses on with her inquiry. “Tell me honestly, how many friends do you have there in Vegas?”
I think of Samantha—Sam, my assistant. Katie Morrow, married to one of my best ex-clients, who I’ve become close-ish with.
Sam and I text about a hundred times a day. They’re all work related correspondences.
Katie’s invited me to at least two girls’ nights out this month. I turned her down both times.
And I don’t date, taking away the possibilities of any intimate relationships.
Lexi’s wide eyed stare holds my gaze. Confirming her suspicions. She’s right.
I have no one close in my life.
Big sister vibes kick in, strong as ever. I want to protect her. To take away her worries.
“Don’t worry, Lexi. I’ll call Katie this week. Make plans to go to yoga, do girl stuff, you know…”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m not talking about an outing once a month. You need a proper relationship. Someone who can care for you.”
Gross. That is so. Not. Me. I do the taking care of. “Lexi I’m not going to-”
But she’s looking at me with those baby blue eyes. Pleading. I need to tell her something that will reassure her. As I’m racking my brain, there’s a dinging noise, the notification sound from my phone, a text from Sam pops up on the screen. I breathe a sigh of relief. An interruption to give me more time to solve this problem. “Hang on Lexi. Let me put you on hold. My assistant is messaging me.”
My sister’s voice is laced with worry. “Should you be working right now? Can’t the Daddies wait? I think you should be recovering.” My sister is the only one who knows what I really do for work.
Pausing my video call with my sister, I flip through the texts. Sam’s freaking out. But not about me being in the hospital because obviously I didn’t have her listed as an emergency contact.
There’s been a Black Tie booking; a five-star date night with a local businessman. One that could possibly lead to another regular, high paying client.
It’s for tomorrow. And we don’t have a single available escort.
This is something that we cannot afford to turn down.
She’s asking.... me... to fill in.
My stomach turns to ice.
My sister, still paused on the video chat, sends a pesky text: You really need to rest.
What I need to be doing is running a successful company. Making money. Facing my fears.
And more importantly, taking away Lexi’s worries. Right now, I can ease her mind, even though it’s a little bit of a stretch of the truth. And while I’m at it, make a little extra money for her wedding.
I pull the call back up. “Actually, Lexi, I have a surprise. It looks like I have a date. For next week.”
Holding in a laugh at the sound of her high-pitched squealing I say goodbye, hanging up before she can ask too many details. I tap back my reply to Sam.
I’ll do it.Chapter ThreeGabrielI walk up to the nurse’s station. I’m not leaving here until I know exactly what we’re dealing with.
“Excuse me.”
A woman a good decade older than I am with her hair in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, glasses perched on the edge of her nose, doesn’t look up. Her lips are pressed in a thin line, and she holds her pen so tightly I feel badly for it. Not exactly super friendly.
“Mhm?”
I clear my throat. I don’t like being ignored. Still, she doesn’t look up, and I don’t have a lot of time to waste, so I press on.
“Can I get some information on the patient in room number 239, please?”
She looks up, prepared to give me what I suppose is a withering look, but she freezes mid-wither. Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen, before she realizes she’s gawking.
She blinks once. Twice. She clears her throat, and adjusts her glasses.
“I’m sorry, sir. What was that?”
I flash her my most charming smile, and little splotches of red bloom on her cheeks. “Room 239. Could I get some information, please?”
She blinks again, then glances at a board behind her. “New patient,” she says. “A relative of yours?”
“Miranda Montague.” I shrug and keep up the grin. It’s working. “We’re good friends.”
It’s a lie, but I won’t get away with the relative card.
She frowns, and looks abashed. “So sorry, but I’m not allowed to give information to anyone who isn’t a relative without prior written consent—”
She freezes when I lean on the counter and fold my arms. Her eyes rove over my forearms and biceps, and she gives an audible little gasp.