“Less than you paid her to marry you.”
“I paid for a year.”
“Yes, and Jasmine is lovely. Far too beautiful and articulate for you.”
“Ha ha.” He rolls his eyes. Heard that before.
“But she’s no Eve.”
“I’m not sure you want to share that with my wife. Not in those words. Maybe focus on how you’re obsessed with her and willing to pay anything.”
“I’m not obsessed.”
He raises a brow really?
Okay, I’m obsessed. Incredibly, painfully, unbearably obsessed. “It’s the mystery. Once I have her, know her… it will be the same as it always is.”
“A parting gift and nothing but memories?”
“Of course.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes,” I lie.
He shakes his head not buying it. Turns to the steaming kettle. “Do you want that tea?”
The ding of the lift interrupts me.
It’s her. I can feel it in the way the air changes.
Footsteps move closer. The soft thunk of her heeled boots. She moves down the hallway. Straight to my office.
Shepard follows my gaze. “You should pick your jaw up from the floor.”
“I’m not—”
“You have that gin in your office?”
“Why? Ready to break your dry streak?” I don’t usually refer to the man’s alcoholism. He doesn’t usually refer to my ex-wife. We taunt each other plenty, but it’s playful, not blood-thirsty.
“Because you’re going to need it.”
“I don’t.”
“In thirty days, when she breaks your heart… I won’t say I told you so.”
“She won’t.” I say it without conviction.
He knows. But he doesn’t call me on it.
Chapter Sixteen
Eve
After a quick hello, I pull the folder from my bag. A new bag. Filled with new things.
This folder. A nylon pen case. A dozen new pens in every color.
And a diary. An old school leather one. In case my thoughts start to jumble.
It’s the only thing that helps. And something tells me I’m not going to have the patience to wait until I’m in front of my computer.
A mess is coming.
Ian is already sending me in every possible direction.
And this—
No second thoughts. Even if I’m scared.
This is a good thing. No matter how much the butterflies in my stomach want to argue otherwise.
They’re not even saying this is bad. More danger, danger, danger.
My hand brushes Ian’s as I give him the folder.
It’s there. That same buzz. That same heat. That same need to feel his hands everywhere.
“All final. With the changes.” All negotiated by lawyers over the last week. Nothing major.
A point demanding three days’ notice before we leave the city. His counter: an ability to insist I sleep where he sleeps. Plus a credit card for assorted purchases. Makeup, clothes, lingerie, sex toys.
Anything I want. Within reason.
Does he do that with all the women he fucks?
Or just me?
It still makes no sense. Why would someone so rich, attractive, and powerful choose me over any other woman?
I push the question to the back of my mind. Sure, this is weird. But it’s happening. And it’s only thirty days. I might as well enjoy them.
“Thank you.” He opens the folder. Peruses the pages. When he’s satisfied, he sets the contract on the desk, grabs a fountain pen. “We need a witness.”
“Right.”
“Do you prefer someone in particular?” His eyes flit to the final page. The details there. That spell out the amount and the time frame.
“Someone discrete.”
He motions one moment, steps out of the office, calls in a young woman in a pencil skirt. “Can you watch us sign, love?”
“Of course, Mr. Hunt.” Her eyes flit to me. Curiosity spreads over her expression. What in the world is she doing here?
“Thank you, Ronnie.” He picks up the pen. Signs. Turns and hands it to me.
I shake my head. Pull a gel roller from my bag.
I know it’s a cliché, for writers to have strong opinions about pens, and it’s true. I’m gel rollers all the way.
But I don’t think of myself as a writer. Not usually.
I’ve certainly never called myself a writer. Or introduced myself as a writer. Or answered the question “what do you want to do when you grow up” with “write.”
There’s never enough room in my head for that question. But I guess that’s changing. How will I pay the rent no longer gets space in my brain. Which leaves all this room. Room I don’t know how to fill.
“I prefer mine. Thank you.” I move to the desk. Skim the final page one last time.
Here it is.
My fate.
Thirty days at Ian Hunt’s beck and call. Half a million dollars in my bank account. A month filled with his dirty desires.
I sign on the dotted line.
The witness does her part. Says a professional goodbye.
Ian pulls a bottle of amber liquor from his desk. Then two glasses. “Do you drink bourbon?”
“Not regularly.” Or ever.
“You like chai?”
“I drink chai every morning.”
“You’ll like this one.” He pours. Hands a glass to me. Holds his to toast. “To a beautiful future.”
“To a beautiful future.” I’m not sure we mean the same future, but, hey, I’m happy to drink to half a million dollars.