Me: You didn’t answer my question.
Aidan: I’m not getting what I want right now, and I haven’t in too long. You know that. Now send me the damned document.
Me: How do you know I have one?
Aidan: You wouldn’t have started this conversation if you didn’t. I’m waiting.
Damn it, he was right. I’d had a checkup a month ago and had all of my annual tests done. I found the document he wanted and sent it in a reply email, then texted him again. All right, now we’re even.
Aidan: Done. Tell me your next condition.
I bit my lip, my confidence ebbing. What was I doing? This man was my boss, one of the richest men in New York, and the sexiest man I’d ever met. I’d only been bold enough to seduce him when I was playing someone else.
I looked down at myself, sitting at my kitchen counter. I was wearing black leggings and a
soft T-shirt with my most comfortable bra under it. My hair was in a rough ponytail and I had no makeup on. I didn’t have on the heavy makeup and expensive dress I’d worn the first night of our game. I didn’t have an identity at the ready. I was just me, on a Saturday morning. Did I actually think I could get a man like Aidan Winters?
I pictured him in his penthouse right now, lounging beautifully, probably wearing black silk pajamas. I’d never seen Aidan in black silk pajamas, or any pajamas, but I pictured him wearing them anyway. His dark hair was a little mussed in the picture in my head, his body long and lean and nearly naked. Masculine perfection. A man on top of the world.
He was still waiting for me to text something. So I wrote: My next condition is that you tell me what you’re doing right now.
He waited a second, and then he wrote: The truth? I’m walking. It’s what I do when I’m at loose ends. I walk the city. I’ve probably covered every part of it by now. I just spent an hour at the Met and now I’m in Central Park, heading toward Columbus Circle. Not sure where I’ll go next.
I stared at the words in surprise. The man on top of the world was walking alone, probably had been for hours. He did it all the time.
And I realized that the Man in Black wasn’t really who he was. It was a costume he put on, a persona. The real Aidan was a runaway kid from Chicago who had come up with an idea with a few of his friends. He might be one of the richest men in New York now, but when he didn’t have to be the ice-cold venture capitalist, he was just Aidan, who liked art and wandered the streets of New York with everyone else.
It makes money, but it’s utterly cold and unfulfilling, he’d said the night at the art gallery. And the first night we played the game: I wanted to do this the first second I saw you. He’d been in character, but he’d been telling the truth. We’d both been telling the truth. It just took playing the game to say what we really meant.
It was time to take a leap of faith. As me.
I lifted my phone again. I texted Aidan my address and the entry code to my building. Then I added the bravest words I’d ever written:
Come over.
Thirty-One
Aidan
* * *
For a second I stared at Samantha’s message as the traffic of Columbus Circle roared past me and New Yorkers bumped into me and cursed me. Then I quickly wrote Don’t change your mind and got myself a cab.
It took ten painful minutes to get to Hell’s Kitchen. I threw money at the driver and got out at Samantha’s building. I already knew where she lived, though I wouldn’t admit that I’d peeked at her HR file out of curiosity. I wanted to know about the real Samantha Riley, not the roles she played.
I wasn’t playing a role myself, not today. I was in jeans and a tee, a baseball cap on my head. I’d just spent an hour looking at Japanese art, because on Saturday morning that was the emptiest part of the Met. The crowds were looking at the Egyptian hieroglyphs and the suits of armor. The Japanese art was some of the most beautiful in the world, and almost no one was there.
I walked to the door of Samantha’s building and realized I was nervous. Fucking nervous. I didn’t have the suit or the office or any of the other shit I usually had. She’d seen me in jeans and a tee before, but that was when I was playing an airline pilot. Jesus, Aidan, you’re the CEO of a billion-dollar company. Get your shit together.
I typed in Samantha’s entry code. The concierge behind the desk in the lobby gave me a polite nod. When I was dressed like this, I didn’t get the extra attention a rich man got and I didn’t get kicked out of nice places, like I had when I was a teenager. I was accepted just about everywhere I went without a second glance, except sometimes from women. But I didn’t care about any women’s opinions right now. I only cared about Samantha’s.
I knocked at her apartment and she opened her door. She was wearing black yoga pants and a tee that fell to her hips, her dark blond hair in a ponytail. Her feet were bare. No makeup. She was fucking gorgeous, and all I wanted was to peel those clothes off her and get inside her, make her feel good. Make her feel what I felt. She was so responsive every time I touched her. The air between us was as thick as cream.
She bit her lip, hesitating, and I paused. “Samantha,” I said.
“Hi.” Her gaze swept down me, slowly, as if she couldn’t make herself hurry. Then it moved back up again, and her cheekbones flushed pink. “I, um, I don’t usually do this,” she said.
I leaned against the doorframe, pressing forward a little so I was edging inside. “Good.”