"I know."
I nod, agreeing with his agreement.
With my own statement.
And I agree.
At least, my head does.
But my body?
My heart?
I'm so far gone I'm lost.
Our rules?
Forgotten.
Replaced by a primal urge to feel his body inside mine.
And all the implications that come with it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
VANESSA
For a few minutes, my thoughts stall. Grind to a halt, really.
I only hear half of what Simon says. Something about Opal wanting to try the Aviation. Insisting they buy a cocktail shaker.
Of course, Simon didn't have one since he only drinks whiskey.
Only there weren't cocktail shakers at Target. So they went to Bed, Bath, and Beyond, and Opal tried to buy half the store.
Simon made her narrow her selections to a few things. Since she's living here while she goes to school. And she doesn't need extra pillows for college. And no one needs the items sold on infomercials.
She called him mean, of course, but she eventually agreed.
I nod, finish my water, excuse myself.
I use the extremely pink bathroom in the hall, wash my hands with passion fruit soap, dry with a magenta towel.
Opal decorated this place.
And Simon envisions a future with me.
And I have to tell him about my parents. My issues.
My thoughts swirl. Another coat of lipstick fails to help. The bright bulbs of the vanity offer no clarity.
This is sex.
And it's more.
And I can do that. I can do more.
I step into the hallway—it's enormous, and it ends on a balcony—then return to the kitchen.
Immediately, all his attention turns to me.
But he doesn't look at me like he wants to consume me.
He looks at me like he wants to talk to me all fucking night.
"Aviation?" he asks.
"Yes. Thanks."
"Do you want dessert?"
"You eat dessert?"
"Not usually."
"Only chocolate as dark as your soul?"
"They don't make chocolate as dark as my soul."
"A hundred percent cocoa?"
"You tell me."
"I see you at eighty-five."
"My favorite," he says.
"Me too."
He grabs a bar from the shelf.
"Are you going to serve strawberries too?"
"If that's what you want."
I nod. Strawberries are good. Romantic and sexy.
"Sit." He motions to the couch. "I'll bring drinks."
It's a dozen steps to the couch, but it feels farther.
I sink into the supple leather. It's perfect. Sleek and smooth. Supportive but yielding.
A good place for a TV marathon.
A drink.
A fuck.
I smooth my dress. Check my cell.
An all-clear from my security team. Teasing from Lee.
Lee: How soaked is your dress by now? Pay the dry cleaner extra. XO.
"Work?" Simon sets the drinks on the glass coffee table. Slides into the seat next to mine. The way we sat on the balcony. Both times.
"Lee."
"Asking about me?"
"Do you really think the world revolves around you?"
"Does it?"
I show him my cell screen.
He laughs, really laughs. "She's a lot like Liam."
"Don't tell her."
"Don't tell him."
"Do you feel the same way?" I slide my cell into my purse. "About her?"
"Are you asking if I dislike your sister?"
"If you think she's mean."
"She is mean. It's not an opinion."
"She is," I admit.
"But I don't judge her for it. She's honest about who she is. She knows what she wants. She's willing to hurt anyone in her way. I understand that."
"You're both ruthless."
"You are too."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Of course." He lifts his drink.
I raise mine. "Are we toasting?"
"To ruthless women."
I tap my glass against his. Bring it to my lips. Take a long sip. Mmm. Gin. Lemon. Herbs. Sugar. The perfect mix of sweet and tart. "Simon, this is amazing."
"Thank you." He takes a sip. An Aviation for him too.
He looks strange, bringing the delicate martini glass to his lips, sipping the purple liquid.
But he looks right too.
Strong, powerful, in control.
"It took a few tries to get it right." He takes another sip. Sets the drink on the table. "Every time, it tasted like you."
"Did you drink them?"
He nods. "My new favorite."
"Will you stop ordering whiskey?"
"No." His eyes flit to the bedroom. "My plans haven't changed."
Right. Fuck. My chest heaves with my inhale. "I, uh, what were we talking about?"
"Sex."
"Before that."
"Sex."
"After that?"
"Opal," he says.
Everything complicated and fraught.
What's easy?
There must be something easy.
"You're a good brother," I say. "Watching TV with her."
"Lecturing her about the horrifying content?"
"Do you really?"
"All the time. I see something horrible and pause the show. She pouts and complains I'm no fun. I tell her what the problem is. This time, a teenage boy pursuing his teacher. I talked about the power imbalance. How it's never appropriate for a teacher. She tried to turn it around. Asked if it's appropriate for a boss. If I've ever pursued an employee. Or responded to an employee pursuing me."
"Have you?"
Something flares in his eyes. Hurt. "No. But I understand why you'd ask."
"I didn't mean—" I swallow hard. This is why I need to tell him. So he'll understand it's not him. It's me. "No. I did. I'm sorry."
"It's a fair question."
"It's not you. It's the world."
"You don't believe I'd abuse my power?"