The furniture is sleek leather, the wall art simple but meaningful. A print of Monet’s starry night, and an authentic Georgia O’Keefe above the mantel. The gas fireplace lends a romantic feel as well. I walk to the mantel and realize there’s a candle there I’ve never lit.
I’m not a sentimental guy.
And I don’t mix business with pleasure.
Why am I doing this?
Downstairs, I stood on the sidelines, watching the gorgeous women march in like they were on a runway, but none grabbed my attention. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me, why I couldn’t manage to get my shit together and find a single one of these beautiful women attractive.
Then, I saw her.
Easily a foot shorter than the rest of them, she walked on heels like a girl playing dress-up, uncertain and wobbly on her feet.
Adorable.
Her dress hugs her curves in all the right places, showing cleavage but hinting at more beneath that fabric.
Stunning.
She filled her plate with food, and then came back for seconds, looking around furtively as if Miranda would come marching over any moment, wagging a finger and telling her to eat her leafy greens.
She was obviously hungry. Why?
Are there other things she’s hungry for?
She isn’t like the others. There’s something markedly different about her, a winsome wholeness I can’t put my finger on. She seems sweet, shy, like a lost little kitten. What the hell am I doing?
I call Rawley, my brother.
“Yo.”
I roll my eyes. “Yo,” I say with a grimace. “You need to tell me I’m not making a mistake.”
“Well that’s easy. You’re not making a mistake. Do it. Do it twice. Buy it! Buy three.”
I close my eyes, shake my head, and contemplate hanging up the phone. He must sense my hesitation, for he presses on.
“Okay, Darius. Fess up. You can tell Uncle Rawley what’s got you all in a tither.”
I shake my head. Jesus.
“I hired an escort for the night,” I groan. “In my own fucking hotel.”
“‘Bout damn time.”
I sigh. A part of me knew that he’d practically congratulate me, which is probably why I called him to begin with.
“You need that, bro. Do it. If you don’t, I’ll fly all the way to that swanky fucking rooftop whatever you own and kick your ass.”
“Like hell you will.” I’d like to see him try.
“Do it, Darius. You have to live a little. Fill the well, and whatever other sentimental bullshit’s written in the latest inspirational poster on your office wall.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes and shake my head. Framed college degrees are the only things hung up on my office walls, but he loves to give me shit.
“Make it good, bro.” He sighs. “Listen, I’ve gotta go.”
“Yeah. Alright, you go. Thanks, man.”
I hang up the phone, honestly no more at ease than I was before. Another shot helps, when my door buzzes.
I walk to the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Morrow, I’ve arrived with your guest.”
My guest.
“You may enter.” Logan has access to my apartment, but only enters after he asks permission.
A moment later, the door opens, and Logan comes in, followed by the stunning blonde. Her bright eyes take in the details of my penthouse, likely noting the opulence. She doesn’t speak for long moments, nor does she meet my eyes. I wonder if she’s intimidated.
“Thank you, Logan,” I say. “You may leave us.”
He gracefully exits, and the door shuts.
She stands just inside the door, clutching her small bag as if it will defend her against me. It won’t, but she’s cute.
“Come in.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morrow,” she says, her voice wobbly. “Your… your home is beautiful, sir.”
Sir.
I fucking like that.
“Thank you.”
I offer nothing else at first. I want to note as much about her as possible. The way she walks. Unaccustomed to heels? The gentle wave of her hair. Natural? The way she looks about as if to find a place to sit as far away from me as possible. Nervous?
My fingers tighten on the glass in my hand. It will be so goddamn hard keeping myself in check around her. Perhaps even harder to send her home in the morning.
She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it and blushes. She’s so nervous, it’s enticing, and a little voice in the back of my mind whispers, tempting me.
Could she be the one?
The one who doesn’t run.
The one who doesn’t call me sick or twisted.
I dismiss the thought with a scowl, and she must take it as my disapproval, for her cheeks flush hotter.
It doesn’t fucking matter who she is or what she likes, I’ll pay her well for her time with me and send her home in the morning.
She sits, then quickly rises again. “I’m sorry,” she stutters, getting to her feet. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t think I’m —”
“Sit down.” The command is sharp and rasping, and it makes her jump. She trips on the carpet, her heel snags, and falls toward the coffee table, banging her knee. She winces, cries out, and steadies herself on the glass table, both hands splayed out to steady herself, her full breasts nearly spilling out of her top.
I immediately regret my sharp tone, and I admit, that’s a fucking first. I like people jumping to my commands. I like them to be afraid of me. I haven’t risen to where I am by being Mr. Nice Guy.
But this girl… she’s a skittish little thing, and the very knowledge makes the low coil of arousal in my belly tighten. There’s something about her that’s so authentic and vibrant, it makes me feel alive.
“Be careful,” I scold. “Sit.” Then my conscience pricks me. “You alright?” She winces at my gruff tone.
She reaches for her knee with a wince. “Well… I think I’m okay,” she says, but her voice is pained. “I just… it’s just…”
Her voice trails off when I take her smaller hand in mine. She’s cold, but her hands are soft and feminine. An unbidden thought rushes in.
I could take this hand and lead her well.
I swallow hard, sit on the sofa, and gently tug her hand so she’s sitting beside me.
“Show me.”
She blinks, and her mouth parts. She finally whispers, “Show you what, sir?”
Everything.
“Your knee, please.”
She blinks, then wordlessly points to her banged-up knee.
“That’ll bruise,” I murmur. My fingers find her thigh as I bend my head, brushing my lips against the lightly bruised skin in a soft kiss. A tremble runs through her at my touch. I’m no gentleman, but I can play the part.
She’s so responsive.
“I have some lotion that will help.” I rise and point my index finger at her. “You stay right there.”
She blinks, swallows, and nods, but doesn’t speak.
The irrational part of my brain fears that if I leave her, she’ll fly away, like a caged bird, and I must not let that happen.
I return later with a small tube of arnica cream and a bandage. I sit beside her, patting my knee. “Give me your leg.”