‘No judgement.’ She lifts her hands in front of her. ‘I don’t care.’
There it is again. What do I want? For her to be jealous? That’s kind of petty.
And stupid, given that I’m moving home in a few weeks with every intention of turning my lifestyle on its head completely, meeting someone who I can see a future with. A future that will look nothing like this. I’m not looking for someone I can laugh with and make love to all night long.
‘Do you ever think how different your life would have been if your fiancée hadn’t…?’
‘Left me at the altar in front of our nearest and dearest?’
She winces. ‘That must have sucked.’
I laugh, just a short, sharp noise of agreement. ‘That’s one word for it.’
‘I’m serious. You must have been livid.’
‘I was many things.’ I drain my beer and place it on the edge of the hot tub.
‘Like?’
‘Livid, sure. Hurt. Heartbroken.’ I catch the speculation that sweeps across her expression. ‘That surprises you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘You don’t think I have a heart?’ I can’t resist probing, my voice light.
‘Why would you say that?’
‘When I said I was heartbroken you looked surprised.’
She shakes her head. ‘You were getting married. It goes without saying you were in love with her.’
I give Manhattan my full focus for a minute, studying the beautiful, sparkling high-rises. Something inside me pulls tight—the thought of leaving this behind is not something I relish, even though I know the time has come.
‘I wasn’t really.’ The admission isn’t one I’ve ever made, even to myself. ‘I wanted to love her. I suppose I thought that loving her would mean my parents hadn’t masterminded the marriage. That it would have come down to Saffy and me being right for each other.’ I grimace. ‘At least she figured it out before we made it official.’
Imogen sits up a little higher, so her beautiful breasts in that lace bra float on the surface of the water.
‘Do you think you’d still be married, if she hadn’t?’
‘Probably. I didn’t love her but I liked her a lot, and I respected her. We enjoyed one another’s company. Our marriage made sense.’
‘Do you ever speak to her?’
‘No. Not for any reason—but I bear her no animosity.’
‘You’re far kinder than I would be. I mean, to leave someone on their wedding day—’
Her indignation is palpable.
‘You think she should have married me just to avoid creating a scene?’
‘Well, no. I guess ideally she should have realised how she felt before it was your wedding day.’
‘It was a hard decision to make. She thought the wedding day would come and she’d feel okay about it. She didn’t. She didn’t know until she was living it.’
‘Still.’ Imogen’s lips twist with disapproval and I want to bottle this part of her—her indignation and spark are so uniquely her, she is incredibly fiery. ‘She deserves for you to hate her.’
I grin. ‘To what end?’
‘Because she embarrassed you?’
‘I’m not so easily embarrassed,’ I say with a lift of my shoulders. ‘It sucked at the time. It was pretty shitty. So I went and got hammered. I got laid. And then I got on with my life.’
Imogen’s eyes flare wide and I feel as if she wants to say something, but then she lets out a small sigh. ‘Selfishly, I’m very glad she didn’t marry you. It’s been very nice having you as my sex toy for a while.’
It’s so completely not what I expect that I burst out laughing. I’m still laughing when she crosses the hot tub and sits in my lap, and I laugh right up until she kisses me. I stop laughing, and I kiss her right back.
SEVEN DATES. WE’VE had seven dates and more soul-bursting orgasms than I can possibly keep track of. I shift in the bed and look at Nicholas with a feeling that is a lot like dread.
He’s sleeping, lightly, and I can’t really blame him. It’s some time before dawn, the night wrapping around New York even as the city insists on twinkling with its sparkly lights. We went to a Broadway show last night and I teased him beforehand, that it was a bit predictable.
He insisted it was a quintessential New York date and that I hadn’t really lived until I’d been taken to a Broadway show. I prepared to tease him all night, that it was cheesy or schmaltzy or something, but then he went and made it all ‘next level’ and I got caught up in the fairy tale of the whole thing.
When he came to pick me up from my place, he brought a single red rose and a box of chocolate truffles—he’s very cleverly discovered how much I love them. We rode in his limousine with classical music playing, and, on arrival at the theatre, we were escorted to a private box where champagne and sushi were brought to us. We had our own butler for the duration. Afterwards, we walked back to his place, talking and laughing the whole way.
He was right.
It was a new experience, a different experience, and one I’m so glad to have shared with him. I mean, I’ve been to shows before, obviously, but never like that. It was…lovely.
No, that’s so bland. It was perfection. It was heart-stopping.
As was what happened after. My body hums and sings with the pleasures I experienced. Pleasures he gave me like gifts, beautiful little explosions of delight that have weaved their way into my soul.
The Christmas gala is one week away. I’m looking down the barrel of workplace mayhem as I make sure everything is organised for our biggest event of the year. While every Billionaires’ Club party is a big deal, this is the one that draws almost the entire membership. It is our biggest fundraiser, a night not to be missed, and every year there’s an expectation that it will get bigger and better.
And I think this year will be pretty epic—but I can’t risk anything going wrong. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t let anything rob me of my focus. And yet, Nicholas definitely does that, and I wouldn’t, for all the stars in the sky, put a premature end to this.
I’m already dreading the gala purely for the fact it’s our line in the sand, the end to what we’re doing. I know how fast this week’s going to go.
I contemplate reaching for him, running my hand over his taut stomach, and lower still, waking him with my hands or my mouth, drawing him none-too-gently from his sleep. But he’s so peaceful and despite the fact tomorrow—no, today—is Sunday, I have to go down to one of the Chance facilities to give a talk. As tempted as I am for round two hundred, I know where my duties lie.
I push the sheet back with serious regrets and tiptoe out of his bed, out of his room, and I tell myself not to look back.
I sleep until midday then dress quickly—jeans and a sweater, a simple black coat and flats for today. I don’t dress up for Chance sessions. The whole thing is to be relatable to these guys. They have enough adults in their lives that don’t get them. I want them to see me as a friend, someone they can trust.
One