Hot Sugar

I can’t depend on Mason forever. That’s not how these things work.

It’s not good for him.

And it’s definitely not good for me.

Slowly, my heart splinters once more, torn into pieces. I’ll never be the same. And falling to my knees, I show myself for who I truly am … a broken, devastated woman with no way of climbing back.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Carrie

It’s hard, really hard. Before leaving for Paris, Mason asked me to another industry function. And what could I say? I’m a sugar baby, and the only answer was yes.

So I went.

I put on the high heels and sexy cocktail dress.

I smiled until my cheeks felt like they were cracking.

I drank wine and made merry, like nothing was wrong.

But inside, I was dying.

I’m not his girlfriend, folks.

I’m not even someone he’s dating.

I’m a sugar baby, a woman who gets paid.

So yes, it was really hard. Talking to the industry titan and his wizened wife, who were so nice. Pretending like I belonged there, when really, I was an imposter.

Because that’s how I feel now. Like I shouldn’t be here. Like I’m lying to all these people, and they don’t even suspect.

My heart thumps so fast in my chest, I’m sure it’s gonna burst.

My head hurts, a pain stabbing at the base of my skull.

But this is a job.

And I have to do it well.

I just got paid after all.

So after the function, I slip back into his limo like a good little girl who’s been given her orders.

Standing in the foyer, I tremble like a doe. He’s going to pounce. The billionaire’s been signaling his need to me for the last few hours, every look from those blue eyes intent. But instead, Mason pulls off his suit jacket to reveal broad shoulders, his look inscrutable.

“Let’s have a drink,” he nods towards the living room.

Nodding silently, I follow him into the grand space. It’s a dimly lit room done in different shades of white illuminated by the cityscape outside. Mason takes a seat on the low sofa, and I follow his lead, sitting stiffly as he pours two glasses of wine.

But the big man doesn’t pounce immediately. He doesn’t pull me into his lap, ravishing my figure. Instead, calmly, he hands me a glass of Bordeaux, the red liquid swirling gracefully in a big bowl-shaped glass.

“Have a good time tonight?” he asks, leaning casually backwards into the cushion. “Did you like it?”

I’m puzzled. Yes, of course I did. Did it seem otherwise? Oh no.

“It was wonderful,” are my parroted words. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Hopefully, that wasn’t too mechanical.

He nods.

“Good sweetheart. What made it nice?”

Why is he asking this? I pause for a moment, gathering my thoughts.

“Well, the people of course. I don’t know anything about construction and development, or about city rules and regulations either,” comes my rushed voice. “But the folks I spoke with didn’t seem to mind. They were courteous, even friendly.”

Mason tips that handsome head back and laughs then.

“Oh sweetheart, I don’t think they were listening to your words. Or they were, but it’s more than that. It’s your charm honey, and how you look in that dress. All those guys were circling like hound dogs, ready to pick you off on a moment’s notice.”

A flush runs over my cheek.

“No, I’m sure that’s not it,” comes my strangled reply. “No one came onto me at all. They’re just friendly, that’s all.”

The comment makes Mason rumble with laughter.

“Sweet thing, you really don’t know, do you? You have no idea how tantalizing that figure is, how every guy there wanted to jump your bones. I swear, if Bobby Jones had looked your way one more time, I was gonna punch him in the gut. Although maybe I don’t have to,” Mason added thoughtfully. “Dude’s gonna have a crick in his neck from craning his head your way.”

I blush again.

“I don’t remember a Bobby Jones,” comes my stammer, fingers shaking a bit on the wine glass. “Who is that?”

Mason’s dark smile slides across his lips.

“It’s good that you don’t remember,” he rumbles. “Because I would hate for you to notice anyone but me.”

The billionaire doesn’t have to worry. Because I really didn’t see anyone but him. Everyone else was a blur, just a series of faces and handshakes, melding into one another. Even as my heart breaks, all I can see is him. And painfully, I tell him that.

“Mr. Channing,” is my slow voice. “There really was no one else. I mean, I remember a few people yes, that old man, Saul Rockefeller, and his wife Lulu. But only because I must have chatted with them for twenty minutes. They were so kind, such amazing philanthropists.”

Mason’s eyes grow dark once more, one blunt finger stroking slowly along my shoulder.

“Good,” he rumbles. “I’m glad you didn’t notice anyone other than me. And as for Saul and Lulu, they’re in their eighties, I’m sure they were delighted to meet someone so young and fresh with an open mind.”