Sweet Thing (Naughty Things 2)

“Is this your limo?” I ask. Because I figured he rented it.

“Company limo. Same driver as usual, though.”

“Oh.” So interesting. My father is rich. I think. I guess. I always thought we were rich. But unless he’s going to the airport he drives himself everywhere. Even when I used to have dance classes, or art classes, or that one year I took piano—he drove me everywhere. Always dropped me off. Always picked me up. So this company limo stuff is foreign to me.

“Do you think my father likes you?” I ask.

He gives me a sideways look out of the corner of his eye. “So far.”

I chuckle a little. “Yeah, I don’t know what he would think about this.”

“I have a pretty good idea. That’s why I’m trying to do this right, Aria. His opinion is important, and not because we’re in the middle of a deal. His opinion is important because…” He runs his hand through his hair again, sighing. “Well, because he loves you. It’s pretty clear you’re his sweet princess of a daughter. And if I have any hope of seeing you long-term, his opinion of me matters.”

Long-term. “I’m sorry, did you just say long-term? Or am I hearing things?”

He does that side-eye thing again. “Unless you don’t want to see me long-term. I might be getting ahead of myself.”

“You want to see me long-term? As in… after spring break is over? After April comes back and kicks me out of her apartment? After my life goes back to normal?”

“Like I said, unless you don’t want to.”

I just stare at him for a few seconds. Blinking in astonishment. Then manage to say, “I guess it never occurred to me.”

“Which part?”

“That you would actually… care about me.”

“It took me by surprise as well. But I do. I like you, Aria. And if keeping your attention means making sure you have all the right experiences in all the right order, then that’s what I’m prepared to do.”

“But… we’re going to have sex tonight, right?”

He laughs. And his smile is big. And that’s when I realize—he hasn’t smiled much tonight. He was pretty serious, in fact. Still is. “We’ll see,” he says.

But now I’m thinking about him instead of me. “Did you have fun tonight?”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m serious. Because you didn’t smile much.”

“Oh.” He smiles again. “I was worried about you. People getting too close to you. Knocking you down or spilling drinks on you. But I had a really good time doing that.”

I think I swoon at that. Actually get a little light-headed.

“The whole point was to just take you out and show you something new. A little of me, I guess. So you’re wrong, actually. I did show you me. And I hope you enjoyed the music because I did. I liked that band a lot.”

I open my mouth to say something but the car stops and Ryker looks past me out my window. “This is me,” he says, grabbing my heels and slipping them on my feet. Then he places them on the floor just as the driver opens my door.

I get out and he gets out after me. Then he nods to the driver and takes my hand, leading me to the front of his building.

The doorman greets him by name, then nods his head at me and says, “Good evening, ma’am,” as he opens the door.

The lobby is almost empty so the only sound is the echo of our shoes tapping on the tiled floor. In the elevator he flashes a keycard at a sensor and the button for the penthouse lights up.

I glance at him, grinning, and he offers me a small, humble shrug.

At the top the doors open straight into his apartment.

Floor-to-ceiling views of midtown, large, gray, leather sectional sofa with two red accent chairs, and room-sized white rug over dark hardwood floors.

“I’m boring,” he says. “I’m not here that much, so please don’t judge my decorating.”

He walks me over to the window and we stand there in silence for a few seconds. Then I look up at him and grin. “I don’t think I understand you.”

“What do you mean?”

I look at his reflection in the glass—his concert t-shirt, his faded jeans, his demon tattoos—then refocus so I can see the apartment behind him. Such a contrast. “Where did you come from, Ryker North? Not midtown. You didn’t go to a school like St. Bernadette’s, did you? So who are you?”

He sighs, drops my hand, and then walks over to a drink cart and begins pouring himself a drink from a decanter. Takes a sip. Looks at me. Takes another one. Sets the drink down.

I can’t help but notice that he doesn’t offer me one.

“It’s a long story,” he finally says.

I kick off my heels and walk over to him, unsure if I’m allowed to touch him, but unable to stop myself. So I place my hands on his arms and say, “I’ve got all night, Mr. North.”