“And what happens when I’m older? When I’ve got more real-world experience and the excitement has worn off?”
Nolan gathers my hands in his, kissing the insides of my palms. “One day at a time.”
I don’t like his answer. There’s no comfort or assurance in it. It’s not like I’m expecting an engagement ring, but a little word of encouragement would be nice. Something that tells me he’s in this for the long haul.
Lord knows I am.
A quick knock at the door, followed by a man announcing himself as “room service,” sends me scurrying, naked, to the bathroom. A minute later, Nolan retrieves me. He’s slipped into his black slacks, the belt undone and his smooth chest exposed.
“Dinner’s here.” He looks me up and down, only now I’m wrapped in a fluffy robe with the hotel monogram on the lapels. “Come eat.”
We dine in silence.
My chicken is dry and the vegetables are bland. I shove the food around on my plate so it looks like I’m eating more than I am. I don’t touch the wine he’s poured. Lately I’ve been nauseous, and it only intensifies when I’m having an off day.
Nerves, mostly likely.
“You want to rent a movie?” He points to the giant flat-screen TV across the room.
“Sure.” I force a smile. I just want things to be normal again.
But I can’t ignore the nagging pull in the deepest part of my chest telling me something’s not right.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but it’s like we’ve been knocked out of our perfect little orbit.
We finish our meal and burrow beneath the covers. I tell him to pick the movie. I’m probably going to pass out soon anyway—lately I can hardly stay up past nine.
The credits roll and Nolan pulls me into his arms. “I love you, Soph.”
“You do?”
If he only knew that I’ve said those words to him a million times in my head …
“Don’t act so surprised.” He laughs, cupping my cheek and pressing his mouth against mine. His tongue passes between my lips, and he pulls me into his lap and steers my hand to his hardening cock.
“I love you too,” I whisper against his inferno-hot mouth.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Don’t doubt that for a second.”
Despite the swell of nausea in the back of my throat and the overwhelming desire to rest my head on the fluffy pillows beside him and call it a night, I give myself to him again.
He’s always giving me things: gifts, money, his time, his attention, and now … his love.
The least I can do is give him a little bit of pleasure in return.
It’s not like I have anything else to give him …
Twenty-Five
Trey
Present
“Mr. Westcott, Ms. Bristol is here to see you,” Mona says.
I was about to take a conference call with our publishing division, but I can spare a few minutes for her. My inbox dings and Broderick’s name fills the screen. Earlier today, I’d asked for an update on Sophie’s dating history. I want to know her type. Any patterns that can be identified. Her longest running relationship. Anything.
Also, I want to know the name of the public figure who broke her heart …
“Trying. No info yet. Still digging,” he writes. “Not much to go on.”
Excuses …
“Try harder,” I type back in bold, underscored, italicized letters before telling Mona to send Sophie in.
Three seconds later, the doors swing open. Sophie enters with confident strides, a woman on a mission, hair cascading down her shoulders, lips red as maraschino cherries.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll do it.”
This is completely unexpected.
I rise, hiding my shock and replacing it with a cocksure smirk. “I knew you’d come to your senses.”
It had to have been the text last night …
“But it has to be on my terms,” she says. “I want to keep things private. I don’t want this to be a PR stunt. And I don’t want a billion dollars—I don’t even know what I’d do with a billion dollars. And if we have a child together, it’s on my timeline. When I’m ready.”
“All right. Aside from a brief media announcement, we can keep things low-key.” Easy enough. “I’ll have Broderick draft the new contract immediately, and I’ll have my assistant locate a mover to place your apartment belongings into storage.”
“I’m keeping my apartment.”
“What’s the point in that? It’ll sit empty for years.”
“I need to have something that’s still mine and only mine,” she says. “I’ll pack a few bags, but everything else stays.”
“Okay. Anything else?” I slide a notepad from the corner of my desk, grab a silver pen, and take notes.
“Where will I sleep?”
“In the master suite. With me. Everything needs to appear authentic, and that includes what happens around my personal staff.”
She draws a quick breath, as if she’s coming to terms with that part of the arrangement.