Bad Boy Rich

The tip of his finger graciously slides against my hand, rising slowly up my arm until he settles in the middle of my collarbone. I struggle to tame the thump of my heart and hide the way my body is reacting. His response hangs in suspense; and waiting patiently only built this wall of fire between us.

“Stay with me,” he whispers against my ear.

“I can’t do that.”

“You will.” He doesn’t say anything else, breathing softly into my hair. “You won’t leave. I know that much.”

I hated the way he did this; made me feel all these things that I shouldn’t even be thinking. He just wanted to get me into bed—and I wasn’t that type of girl. I had morals, respect for myself.

And then—it all falls apart.

The old me.

Gone, if only for tonight.

I nod, raising my head to meet his lips, watching the depth of his gaze and trying to unravel his intentions.

“I’ll stay.”

We had spoken for one hour straight about different bodily rashes.

Emerson was adamant that the baby had chicken pox. Her fiancé, Logan, argued that it was poison ivy. The poison ivy seemed far-fetched but nevertheless—images were sought after on Google and my appetite dwindled down to nothing after the horrendous pictures I saw.

It was my first time meeting Logan Carrington. He was exactly how Emerson described him: stubborn, hot-headed and gorgeous.

He had an athletic build. Defined muscles from what I could see. And the longer I sat across him, the more he looked exactly like Lola. I couldn’t quite work it out, perhaps it was the light eyes or the way their faces contoured.

Emerson and Logan had something unique about their relationship, something I hadn’t seen before. Like he knew what she was thinking, or she pre-empted his next move when grabbing the last turkey sandwich. They argued constantly, laughed equally, and despite the occasional heated tension—I enjoyed being in their company.

I let out a yawn unexpectedly, covering my mouth and apologizing for my poor manners.

“Late night?” Emerson grins while ripping a piece of lettuce out of her sandwich.

“Just a tad over my bed time.” I don’t want to appear rude or grouchy, offering a weak smile before pouring myself a much-needed coffee.

Logan begins to tell us about his trip to Brazil, what it was like to coach a bunch of teenage boys and the pressure of mentoring them. Somewhere during the conversation, I zone out.

Last night wasn’t what I expected.

He didn’t touch me.

Not a single time after the moment he asked me to stay.

We sat in his den, watching a black-and-white movie play on the screen. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t sexual—it wasn’t anything.

We had moments when we watched quietly, engrossed in the storyline. Moments when we spoke about the scene that just finished or some random topic he would bring up, and somewhere during the night, I fell asleep on the brown leather sofa only to wake in the early morning covered by a blanket.

Wesley was nowhere to be seen. His housekeeper woke me up, speaking her native Spanish. I couldn’t understand a word. It took me ten minutes to figure out she was offering me breakfast and that was only because she dragged me to the kitchen. He hadn’t left a note, nothing to tell me why he left. I didn’t know what to feel.

His company comforted me in ways I never imagined a stranger could. Then he goes and does something like this—abandonment. I’m left questioning what last night meant but give up when my brain begins to hurt and I come to the conclusion that I was just convenient for him and at the end—he lost interest.

“Drink up, you need a caffeine hit if we’re going to get through these contracts.” Emerson creates a pile for me and opens the first page. “So, Wesley said nothing in the meeting?”

“Not really. Jeff kind of spoke and Wesley just sat.”

“How predictable,” Logan snarks.

Emerson raises one eye at him, quick to ignore his childish comment and move on.