Bad Boy Rich

My focus moves away from the current of the water, my gaze moving towards him. Just like myself—moments ago—he is watching the water with a downward expression.

“I don’t know you,” I tell him, keeping my tone calm. “Who are you?”

With the glass in hand, he drinks it fast, slamming it down before standing up and muttering, “It’s probably better you don’t. Let’s go inside. I hate being here.”

It’s another mood shift; quick and abrupt. I couldn’t figure him out, or maybe—I wasn’t meant to. He grabs my hand to lift me up. I carry my shoes, drying my feet against the warm tiles.

“What music do you like?”

“Uh, I don’t know, whatever.”

“Surely, you must have something you like.”

“Barry Manilow.”

I can hear him choke on his own saliva. “Barry Manilow?”

“Yep.” I enjoy teasing him, watching his brows turn in with confusion.

He knows I’m playing, lifting his confused frown and replacing it with that insatiable grin. “Barry Manilow it is.”

The remote in his hand controls the music, and after a few taps, the sound of Barry Manilow fills the room.

“This reminds me of my mom.” I blink my eyes, holding back the tears, not wanting to break down in front of him. Until I had left home, I hadn’t truly understood the power of music. A song that can evoke so much emotion from a person purely because of memories.

I’m taken back—to a simple time—Mom outside potting her new flowers on the rusty old deck with her straw hat and garden gloves on. She sung to herself often, and at the time—I prayed she would stop because it distracted me when I was reading on the porch chair.

And now—I would kill to be back at that moment.

I’m quick to distract myself by staring at a photo on the wall. It’s a bunch of men posed in front of a plane, Wesley included.

“I’m sorry. How did she pass?”

“She didn’t.” I swallow, keeping my sentence short. “She’s back home.”

He nods his head, leaning on the wall beside me. His eyes examine my face, causing that rippling effect to grace my skin. I ignore him; desperate to distance myself away from this feeling. He does something to me. I didn’t know what it was. I was scared of him yet fearless at the same time. That made no sense to me whatsoever.

Nothing about tonight made sense.

“So many secrets…I hate secrets.” His tone is bitter, a sudden change from a moment ago.

“I don’t have secrets. I told you I’m boring. Just a small-town girl making a living.”

We play this game; cat and mouse. I pull away, he finds me once again. This is unlike anything I know. This is something Phoebe would do. Not me. I was the rational one. Rational Milana wouldn’t go to a stranger’

s house let alone drink three glasses of wine.

Yes…a third may have made its way into my hand.

“A small-town girl inside my living room…how very dangerous.”

He’s found me again, cornered me across the other side of the room. This time, he leaves nothing to chance, our bodies almost touching, making me very uncomfortable. I don’t want him to see me so vulnerable.

But I cave.

To this lust overcoming me.

“For me…” I watch him, controlling my breathing. “Or you?”