Chapter 7: Davis
Tonight. Seven-thirty.
I send the text to Olivia’s phone on Friday morning with no context other than a pin that gives her the address to my place. I haven’t seen her since she marched out of my office on Tuesday morning, but I know that she’s been thinking about me because Kelsey mentioned that Olivia stopped by on Wednesday morning while I was on a call.
Good. Given that I’ve been thinking about her nonstop all week, she better be thinking about me too.
“You asshole.”
I chuckle at the memory of her snapping at my offer. Somehow, I had forgotten how much her easy boldness amuses me. It’s been a long time since someone has called me an asshole, and it has definitely never come from an intern. That reminder, coupled with another glimpse of those incomparable green eyes, has me practically counting down the seconds until I can leave the office for the night.
Back at my apartment, I do a quick walkthrough of the place to make sure that it’s ready. My housekeeper is top-notch and I’m never around anyway, so I’m not surprised to see that the place is spotless. The bar is fully stocked, there are a few bottles in the wine fridge, and the king-sized bed in my room has clean sheets. All I have left to do is open up the box of condoms I picked up on the way home and wait.
More waiting.
When seven-thirty comes and goes, I start to pace. I take a big drink from the glass of wine that I decided was a necessity about an hour ago and continue to stare at my phone. It rests tauntingly on top of my coffee table, only lighting up when an email comes through. That, unfortunately, happens to be a pretty common occurrence in my world, which only raises my anxiety to a severe threat.
More wine. More waiting.
I plop down on my couch and grab my phone so I can pull up my texts with Olivia. She hasn’t said a word in response to my earlier messages, and I briefly wonder if she got them.
Of course she did, you idiot. This is you being rejected.
“Should I text her?” I say aloud, speaking to my empty apartment. “No, that’s not the move. That’s desperate shit.”
Not to mention risky. For all I know, she’s already reached out to HR—or worse, The New York Times. I can see the headline now: Ridgeway heir offered intern ten thousand dollars to fuck him.
Well, maybe not exactly that. The New York Times would never use the word “fuck” in a headline.
Either way, the last thing I need is evidence in the form of a sad-boy text message sent at eight pm on a Friday night that says: So, what time will you be coming over to fuck me? Late? Should I order cookies for us?
I take another long pull from my wine and release yet another exhale, but there’s this perpetual tightness in my shoulders that hasn’t faded all day. Like an idiot, I had convinced myself that she was going to come.
With each passing minute, the stupidity of my plan becomes clear. What the hell was I thinking? Olivia isn’t like a CEO of a prospective acquisition or a boardroom full of assholes. I was an idiot to assume my usual tricks would work on her. It’s not like I could put on a disgustingly expensive suit and a stoic expression and fake my way through a conversation with her. My goddamn palms are in a sweat just thinking about the little pissed off expression she gets when I smirk at her.
So fucking beautiful.
Screw her for being so beautiful.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to show up at my apartment, a bit reluctant but mostly intrigued—even if she wasn’t willing to admit it. I would lead her in, pour her a glass of wine, and make a cutting remark about how she hasn’t changed in the last eight years. Then she would pretend to be mad at me, but would stick around not just because of the money but because I now look like the mythical demigod of her dreams.
Then she was supposed to fake coy but eventually remind me why she came: for the money. For the intrigue. Then we were supposed to fuck until it hurt, until she came so hard that my name was on her lips as she climaxed.
And then I would pay her and leave her feeling used and wanting, like she made me feel. Then week after week, she was supposed to sit there in my office, wondering if I would make the offer again—another ten grand and another ride on my cock. She would spend all summer wondering and wondering and itching for it, craving it.
And I would flirt with her and toy with her and put confidence and innuendo into every sentence that came out of my mouth. By the end of the summer, she would be wishing she could pay me for it—at which point, I was supposed to thank her for the pussy and her time, but inform her that I didn’t need her services.
That’s how this was supposed to go.
Now, I was going to have to come up with a new plan. New redemption. New vindication. New motherfucking justice.