He kept talking about giving me a baby. I don’t know why, but it turned me on so hard I would have done anything he asked me to. I’d been lying in the tub fantasizing about what it would be like to be with a man like Brooks—to live in his house and sleep in his bed. To welcome him home every day after a long day at the office. Then he called and it all happened so fast.
“I can fix this,” I tell myself. I’ll get dressed. Then I can go find him and tell him we have to keep this professional. My body rebels against the idea and so does my heart.
I go in search of my clothes. While I went over paperwork and let the agency know that I was taking the Renshaw job, the movers put my stuff away. They instructed me this was my room, but as I start to open drawers I keep finding men’s clothes. I open another drawer and finally find something that looks familiar. Maybe Brooks has so many clothes he has to use his guest room for the extra space.
I find a nightshirt and slide it on over my head before pulling out my favorite fuzzy slippers. After hanging the robe back on the door, I make the bed and straighten up a little. I try to tame my wild hair but settle on putting it in a messy bun on top of my head instead. It’s the best I can do at the moment.
I stand there realizing there isn’t anything left for me to do to keep procrastinating. I was half hoping that he’d show up and I wouldn’t have to go search for him. But it looks like I can’t drag my feet any longer, even though my shyness wants to win out.
“Professional,” I mumble to myself.
As I flip the bathroom light off a thought creeps into my mind. What if you’re pregnant? I almost stumble over my own feet when the idea hits me. I thought about it last night, of course. But it was in the heat of the moment. What are the odds I really got pregnant after the first time?
The idea of having Brooks’s baby warms my body all over. Then doubt starts to creep in and I wonder what kind of father he would be. What would that make the two of us? For all I know I’m just another flavor of the week.
When I make it to the kitchen I don’t see anyone, so I go back to my bedroom and find my cell phone. I don’t feel right snooping through Brooks’s home looking for him. Plus, the house is giant. I might never find him. Maybe he left a message that he’s going out to do something.
I only see a couple of missed texts from my mom. I send her one back letting her know I got settled in. She’s disappointed that I already picked up a new job and won’t be home for a longer stay. I make plans to have lunch with her in a few days. I’m still on the fence about telling her what happened with Brooks. The money, the sex. It’s a lot for twenty-four hours.
I cringe when I think about it like that. Why else would someone offer you a million dollars, Ella? That can’t be it. A man like Brooks isn’t hard up for female attention. He can’t be. He’s not only handsome, but he’s mega rich. And he’s incredible in bed. He might have been the only man I’ve ever had sex with, but he’s pretty freaking good at it. I thought your first time was supposed to be awkward and a fumbled mess. Even a little painful. It wasn’t any of those things.
The only rational explanation I can come up with is he has money to throw around and wanted to get this straightened out before his sister got here.
I debate texting him. I want to but think better of it. I wouldn’t text another client asking where they were. I head back to the kitchen but stop when I hear a knock on the front door. I pause, wondering if I should answer it. I live here now, I remind myself. Well, kind of.
I go to the front door and peek through. I see a woman standing there holding a bottle of wine.
I pull open the heavy door and the blonde stares at me in surprise. She’s tall, probably a foot taller than me. She’s in tight black spandex shorts and a bright yellow sports bra. The outfit implies she was going for a run, but the bottle of wine and makeup are saying something else.
“Where’s Brooks?” she asks as she pushes in past me.
“I’m not sure,” I tell her, feeling a little anxious. I’m not sure if I should have let her in or even opened the door. Not that I really let her in. She walked in as if she’s done it a million times.